Fool for Love
by hannah.jpg
Summary: Éomer falls in love with Lothíriel at first sight, but she is betrothed to another. He is forced to be clever.
1. Chapter 1

_Another new story! What! This is one of my all-time favorites, and since I wrote it last December, I've had plenty of time to decide that :P I hope you love it as much as I do!_

* * *

 _19 July, 3019 TA_

Éomer's heart was lost from the very moment he laid his eyes on the princess.

Though it was from afar, there was no denying (even by a stronger man) her stately figure, clear gaze, lovely upturned lips—features that could rival even Queen Arwen's ethereal beauty. At once he recognized that something in her had awoken a response within himself, and he could not deny it even had he been inclined to. He leaned forward in his seat, drinking in the sight of this woman as a man dying of thirst. This abrupt transformation at such a fated moment did not go unnoticed by his companion.

"Ye look as though ye've seen a ghost," Éothain leaned over to whisper. The page was still shouting out names of Gondorian royalty as they walked in. Éomer had been swallowing yawns of boredom, but now he felt every vein in his body humming with…with something.

"Béma be praised," Éomer breathed in return, not taking his eyes from the princess. "She is perfect, Éothain! Truly a divine person come to Arda."

"Wot? Old Imrahil's daughter?"

"Yes, yes! Why have I not known her before? I could have had months already to woo her!" While Éomer was bemoaning this, another noble had entered as the page bawled,

"Lord Silius of Lamedon, son of Dorn!"

Éomer watched in horror as a slim young man stood next to the princess, taking her hand. No Gondorian man would do such a thing were there not an understanding—and if the princess retained her title, she must be unwed. Éomer could guess that they must be betrothed: proof of this was given when the Lord Silius lifted her hand to his lips, though he barely brushed it. Whereas the princess was vibrant, the lord was washed out, looking like a painted portrait which had been faded by the sun. But he was still the lucky bastard that basked in her lovely glow, even receiving a smile from her. Éomer felt a growl deep in his throat; only a poke in the ribs from Éothain kept him from drawing attention to his upset. As quickly as it had come, Éomer's joy was now completely gone, and he watched with a heavy stomach and an aching heart as Lord Silius helped the princess to sit in her chair at Imrahil's table. The lord took a place next to her, and that was all the confirmation Éomer needed.

Eventually the king and queen at last entered, and were toasted by all present. Éomer drank deeply from his wineglass, still watching the princess from the other side of the hall. It was fortunate that the table for himself and his guests was straight across from Imrahil's, though he hated the sight of the princess with her _betrothed_. Éomer grimaced as a surge of jealousy welled in him at the very thought, even as a sense of rebelliousness rose up in him. They were not married yet, perhaps he could…

Evidently the princess's brother thought Éomer to be glowering at him, and with a wide grin Amrothos stood and made his way across the hall, dodging servants that ferried trays of food and drink.

"Hullo!" Amrothos said, sitting casually on the table in front of Éomer, and picking up a small onion tart. "If you have a mind to berate me for not greeting you yesterday when you arrived, I should tell you I have an extremely good reason."

"Eh? What's that?" Éomer asked, taken aback.

"I was with a _lady_ ," the prince enunciated. "Dare I to hope I am forgiven?"

"A lady? Not your usual sort then?"

Amrothos pulled a lovelorn face. "She is the most consummate creature to ever walk the earth."

His mind still on the princess, Éomer muttered under his breath, "I doubt that!" Then he cleared his throat and sat up. "Say, I never knew you had a sister!"

"Oh, Lothíriel? Yes, she certainly is my sister. Always has been, actually." To prove his point, Amrothos hollered the princess's name, waving at her when she looking around to see who was hailing her. She lifted her hand to her brother, shaking her head in amusement as she smiled at him. Then she saw Éomer, and inclined her head towards him. Éomer struggled to keep from flushing red and toasted her with his wineglass. With some difficulty, he turned back to Amrothos.

"And congratulations to your family," Éomer said. "A wedding is always a happy event."

"Generally I believe it is. In this case, it is more difficult to say." Amrothos took another tart.

Hope flared in Éomer's chest."Whyever would that be?" he asked, trying not to appear too eager.

"Eh?" The prince was distracted by a passing tray of cheese. Éomer smothered a growl of frustration before repeating slowly,

"Why would the wedding not be a happy event? Is there no affection involved?"

"Not that I have seen," Amrothos said around his mouthful of tart. "They have been intended for each other for years, and Lothíriel is really too kind to refuse to marry him. It is more tradition than love; certainly no one would be bothered if she changed her mind."

Éomer definitely felt hope now.

"I had better return; Father is giving me the most deathly stare." Amrothos stood, brushing down his trousers. "I shall have to tell you of my lady after supper."

"I can hardly wait," Éomer said. His eyes returned to Imrahil's table with Amrothos, before darting over the princess again. She was preoccupied with her meal, taking elegant bites with the most beautifully shaped hands. Béma, even every movement she made was so pure, so aware...

How on earth could _he_ charm away this vision of perfection from her intended husband? No, no—he could not entertain any doubts. He must either commit himself to the chase, or leave the princess to another. He was to return to Rohan in only four days; the challenge would be enormous. But Éomer did relish a challenge, and for the hand of the loveliest woman he had ever seen?

His path was clear.

The first obstacle was for Éomer to be formally introduced to the princess. This proved easier than he expected, for as soon as the feast was concluded, Imrahil made his way through the crowd towards Éomer with his daughter on his arm. Seeing their approach, Éomer struggled not to stare at the princess; so close, he could see the dark lashes that framed her dark blue eyes. He was riveted to the spot.

"Éomer, my friend! I trust your journey from Rohan was easy?" The prince's lined face beamed into a smile, which Éomer returned.

"Very well indeed. It does bring a sense of luxury when travelling to know that there is neither an orc pack following nor an army ahead."

Oh, what a reward he had then, for the princess laughed, a most glorious sound! Imrahil chuckled as well, but he did not stop Éomer's heart as the princess did. "I wished to introduce you to my daughter," the prince said, "As I do not believe you have met. This is Lothíriel—Lothíriel, King Éomer." Éomer took her hand as she curtseyed, her eyes lowering briefly as Imrahil continued. "She is to be married next spring to Lord Silius; do you know him? I would have liked to introduce you to him as well, but he is, er, unsociable."

Éomer barely heard Imrahil's words, still intently studying Lothíriel. Even at a close distance, she was striking, and the way she smiled at him seared his soul. Her eyes sparkled, giving the impression of familiarity and humor, as if she knew everything and was thoroughly amused by it. The Princess Lothíriel was a most alluring and enchanting woman. And as he watched, a pink flush colored her cheeks, and she looked away towards her father, squeezing his arm.

"Lady Ciriweth is trying to catch your eye, Father," Lothíriel said, hushed.

"Oh!" The change which overcame the prince was immediate, and he adjusted his collar as he straightened his shoulders. "Éomer, we take leave of you. Good night!"

And so the laughing princess shot Éomer a last glance before she was escorted away, and he counted it a success. During the remainder of the evening, he only caught glimpses of her dancing with her brothers and betrothed, but to his regret, he had not the chance to claim a dance himself.

That was the end of the first day.


	2. Chapter 2

_20 July, 3019 TA_

The following morning, Éomer was fortunate to escape the stuffy council chamber. He was in search of a pile of reports, which had been left in the guest chambers he was occupying. He was fully aware that he was not going to see the princess there, anyway, and he had to find _some_ way to speak to her again. For this reason, he decided to take a longer route than perhaps was necessary, and made a winding path through the citadel before coming to the famed gardens.

The sun was bright and the flowers that adorned the garden in full bloom; hanging flowers and viney trees embraced the stone walkways. Éomer heard voices from a distance, and recognizing the female voice at once, he ducked behind a massive bush at once, peeking through the brambles.

Indeed, it was Lothíriel! What luck he had!—though she was walking on the arm of her betrothed. They looked content enough, but to Éomer's biased view they also seemed bored; as he watched, their exchange ended abruptly. Another set of footsteps reached his ears, and he turned to see one of the king's pages who was carrying a stack of books. Éomer held out an arm to stop the man from continuing, thinking fast.

"Do you deliver messages?" he asked. The page nodded, and Éomer reached into his pocket to fish out a coin. "Lord Silius is needed in the—er—council chamber." The page bowed, and took the coin before resuming his course. It was probably rather rude of Éomer to take advantage of Aragorn in such a way, but he knew his friend was far to polite to turn Lord Silius away without at least a cursory chat.

From Éomer's hidden spot, he watched with smugness as the message was delivered, and Lord Silius immediately took leave of Lothíriel. She showed no outward signs of annoyance, but Éomer imagined that most people, even well-mannered ladies, did not take kindly to being deserted by their intended in a public area. As soon as the sound of the departing footsteps faded away and Lothíriel began continue her trek towards a carved fountain, Éomer straightened his tunic, and stepped forward.

Only a scant moment later, he was faced with the astonished princess, and arranged his features to seem equally surprised.

"Princess Lothíriel!" he said, and bowed low over her hand, deliberately lingering. "I did not expect to find the blooming flowers overshadowed by a lovely lady, this morning."

She turned pink, though she was smiling as she gently tugged her hand away. "What a ridiculous thing to say!" she said. "I thank you for it, all the same."

"No more ridiculous than that you appear to be alone—surely there is some lucky escort nearby?" Éomer asked.

Lothíriel's smile faded somewhat. "I was accompanied by Lord Silius, but he was called away on business."

"And he chose business over you? What a fool!" Éomer bowed again. "May I offer myself as an alternative?"

Lothíriel dimpled. "You may, though I must warn you that I shall only accept if you promise to cease your ludicrous flattery."

"I shall maintain that it is not at all ludicrous—only honesty, but you have my word!" Feeling triumphant, Éomer offered her his arm, which she took.

"I do find it strange," Lothíriel said, as they meandered down the walkway, "That Lord Silius is needed by the king, but that you are not. Have you not been involved in the meetings today?"

Éomer paused, thinking fast. He did not at all begrudge her sharpness, but he had not expected her to see through him. Then he relaxed, saying, "Oh, I am certainly not required for any meetings that are exclusive to the running of Gondor. I was busy earlier in the day, it is true—but I was relieved until after luncheon." This was not a lie, but as he spoke it he wondered how he could have forgotten the fact. How could he have been _so_ distracted?

"That is fortunate," Lothíriel said, beaming up at him. "For otherwise I might have cut my walk short. I find that gardens are best enjoyed with a companion!"

"I do agree!" Éomer said. "And I hope I may prove a worthy one."

Now her smile turned mischievous. "We will see how refreshing your conversation is," she mused. "At the end of the path, shall I ask you to stay for another pass, or shall I invent an excuse to be rid of you?"

Éomer tugged at his collar with a nervous expression for show, making her laugh. "I am already sweating!" he said. "I do not think I have felt such apprehension since I met the queen!"

"Surely you do not mean Queen Arwen? Such a kinder or more beautiful lady _I_ have never met!" Lothíriel declared.

"I cannot disagree on either of those points—but when I am in her presence, I have the notion that she knows my thoughts simply by looking at me!"

"Oh! I know exactly what you mean. I have noticed it as well," Lothíriel said, chortling to herself for a moment.

Éomer pulled a woeful face. "It is Aragorn who has my sympathy. I cannot imagine the challenge of wooing a lady that already knows exactly how you feel about her!"

"There I must disagree with you," Lothíriel said, her tone taking on a quality of solemnity. "It would simplify matters if men and women could tell each other their sentiments, free from judgment."

Éomer nearly stopped walking, and Lothíriel looked up at him, startled. "Would it really?" he asked. "It could complicate matters more—for how would one respond to a declaration of love from an individual who one could never consider more than a friend?"

"With honesty," Lothíriel said firmly. "To be honest with others—and yourself as well—is a virtue that all should seek to obtain in life. I argue that it _is_ better to refuse affection from another, for then healing can begin. If it is never admitted or plainly rejected, it will fester."

"A rejection causes more agony than unspoken feelings."

"Only at the onset. Years of desolation is a far worse punishment. Surely you would know!" Lothíriel was looking askance at Éomer, who shrugged. "Tell me—" she continued. "Which is more painful: a cut from a sword, or a blood infection that takes years to kill its victim?"

"That is a mere matter of perspective," Éomer said. "Death from a sword may avoid years of suffering, but during those years one might have joy, even with the ailment."

The princess pursed her lips, the first sign of ill-humor that Éomer had witnessed of her. But then her face cleared, and she nodded to the path ahead of them. "My destination," she said, and Éomer tore his gaze from her to see an enormous stone fountain, which spurted water half-heartedly. It did look very old, and was cracked in many places. "It is my favorite feature of the king's garden," Lothíriel said.

Éomer struggled to comprehend this. "But—why?" he asked. "Surely there are less...decrepit features about."

She glanced up at him, her features inscrutable. "You overestimate the value of beauty," Lothíriel said.

"On the contrary, I rather think you underestimate it," Éomer said. "A pretty lady willing to converse in a well-tended garden is an antidote to even the gruffest old man."

Lothíriel's mouth parted in surprise, and for a moment Éomer thought he had shocked her into silence."Surely you do not mean _me_ ," she said. He grinned at her, and she burst into laughter before asking, "Do you consider yourself a gruff old man, then?"

Éomer chuckled along with her. "Not very old," he said. "And I am only gruff when the occasion calls for it." They had circled around the fountain, and Éomer's sleeve had grown damp from splashing water. It was worth it, he decided, that his princess was dry. She had turned her face to the sun, sighing in contentment, and his heart thumped. Their lively conversation had kept him from his private thoughts, which were mainly of Lothíriel and the way her eyes sparkled and how her smile dimpled her cheeks. Though Éomer had considered his heart lost from the first sight of her the night before, he was doubly sure of it now; the princess was well-spoken, thoughtful, good-natured, and her manners did not hide her sense of merriment. Even during this innocent trek through the gardens, Éomer felt exhilarated simply to be in her presence. She was utterly perfect, just as he expected. There was certainly no way he could allow a nitwit such as Lord Silius to be favored with such a wife!

"Well!" he said lightly. "Have I passed your test then, or will you be creating a reason to avoid me from now on?"

"Oh! I daresay I had forgotten that bit," Lothíriel laughed. "That speaks well to how you have diverted me. I would be pleased to keep your company for another pass through the garden—providing you do not try to speak to me of fiscal interest or breeding patterns of mountain goats."

Éomer took a sharp intake of breath, giving her a troubled look. "You have read my mind!" he accused. "Those were my next topics of interest. I shall have to think of another one."

The princess giggled—oh, how Éomer was coming to love the sound of it! "Then I shall choose the subject," Lothíriel decided. "I am wondering if you would tell me the tale of your uncle. I do apologize if I am forward; I know that is your reason for your journey to Minas Tirith and confess myself most curious as to what sort of man your uncle was."

Éomer blinked several times as he looked down at her. Again, she astonished him—the sincere interest in her expression and the tender way she squeezed his arm was making his heart beat even faster. "My dear lady," he began. "I would be honored to—"

But Lothíriel's eyes had wandered forward, and she stopped in her tracks. "The tale may have to be delayed," she said with a slight frown. "Is that not your friend?"

Éomer cursed the sight of Éothain, who was walking towards them with apparent cluelessness as to how well Éomer's pursuit of the princess was progressing. At least, he felt that it was going well—it was, of course, difficult to surmise Lothíriel's sentiments towards him.

"Sire!" Éothain bowed low in front of them, and Éomer suppressed a growl. "Aragorn sent me to find ye. He was wondering if ye—er—misplaced the reports ye were—er—supposed to be fetching." At this, Éothain's suspicious eyes rested on the princess, who tilted her chin upward, apparently perplexed at his words.

"No, I have not misplaced them," Éomer forced through gritted teeth. "I will be there presently."

Éothain took his leave, but not without a most telling stare directed at his king. Éomer ignored it, and as soon as Éothain was out of earshot, Lothíriel said, "Well! I almost feel deceived. Had I known you were on an errand from King Elessar, I might have refused your company outright!"

Éomer bristled before realizing that his princess was laughing once more. It was a comfort to know she was not entirely offended. "I may have forgotten my purpose," he admitted. "You have the alarming propensity of causing me to forget myself."

If his statement made her uncomfortable, she did not show it. "You ought to leave," Lothíriel said with a smile, gently removing her hand from where he was clenching it to his arm.

"I will not leave you alone!" he said. "I think I have slightly better manners than Lord Silius!"

"You have not the responsibility for me that Lord Silius does," Lothíriel said, her tone calm. "I enjoyed our discourse very much, and I hope I may see you again before you depart from the city."

Éomer's mouth went dry as he stared. She wished to see him again? He could have whooped aloud, but withheld himself. "So you shall!" he promised, and picked up her hand to hold to his lips. "I have never enjoyed myself more."

"You promised earlier not to speak such absurdities!" Lothíriel said, though she smiled.

"I say nothing that is not true," Éomer said. "If we are to be friends, you must prepare to always be admired."

She was blushing, and she shook her head at him. "Then I warn you in turn—I shall rebuff every compliment!"

Éomer grinned, and at last released her hand, though he did not want to. "Farewell for now, Princess Lothíriel, a jewel amongst women."

"You nonsensical man!"

His last sight before turning towards the king's house was of Lothíriel laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

_20 July, 3019 TA_

Éomer fiddled as he waited for supper to begin. His eyes darted to the entryway every minute or so, watching for the moment when the princess would arrive. Her father and brothers were already there (as was her betrothed, but he counted as little in Éomer's mind), yet she remained suspiciously absent.

Where was she?

Not a proper feast, supper that night would be far more casual. Éomer had positioned himself by the clan from Dol Amroth early on, determined to sit beside Lothíriel if it was the last thing he did. And so he was within hearing distance when a servant entered and whispered a quick message to Imrahil, whose brow creased.

"Nothing gained by waiting, then," the prince said to his sons. "Lothíriel is in the library while the light lasts. Elphir, will you inform the king that he might begin the meal?"

Éomer glanced out of one of the pillared windows that lined Merethrond. It would be an hour or so until fully dark, and so he turned to Éothain, who was standing stiffly nearby.

"If anyone asks," he said in a low voice. "I have taken suddenly and violently ill."

Éothain raised an eyebrow but said nothing, and Éomer ducked out of the hall just as Aragorn was standing to welcome the guests. The corridor was dim and silent, and he hastened his steps towards the library. If was lucky, she would be alone again...

He made a point to thank all of his lucky stars, for indeed he saw no one as he entered the massive library. Shelves upon shelves lined the room, filled with all manner of books and scrolls, and the west-facing windows let in a stream of golden sunlight. It was so quiet that he wondered if the princess had already departed, but he pushed away that thought and wandered in.

Halfway down the main path, Éomer heard the crinkling of papers, and with a grin, turned to his left and down and left again past more shelves. The sight that met him nearly stopped his heart, and he paused and gaped before crying out, "Lothíriel!"

She was standing on a tall, creaky ladder, reaching the top rows of books as she handled a massive volume several feet above his head. If she was startled by his presence, she did not show it; instead lowering her book to squint down at him before smiling. "Good evening, my lord!" Lothíriel said. "Have you no appetite either?"

"Are—are you safe?" Éomer asked, undeterred from his earlier dismay. "That ladder looks older than my grandfather!"

She laughed, her cheery voice echoing in the deserted library. "Quite safe," she assured him. "I have been crawling around these shelves since I could walk!"

Éomer glanced at the ladder once more, askance, but shook his head. If anyone could handle a creaky old ladder, it would be his princess. She was wearing a dusty apron and her hair was falling out of its braid, and he thought it utterly charming. Casually, he asked, "So am I to understand that you find more pleasure from reading, than attending supper?"

"I find pleasure in all things," Lothíriel said as she returned her attention to the book she was holding. "I have been here all afternoon, I am afraid, in pursuit of specific knowledge. But if I were to abandon my search now, I would be distracted and not at all pleasant company. I did promise Father I would be along once the sun sets," she added, as if in defense of herself.

"What specific knowledge?" Éomer asked, curious.

"If you must know," she said, huffing slightly as she heaved the volume back onto the shelf. "The last months I have been studying the Haradrim at the bequest of the king, as so little is known of their language and it is difficult to communicate with their envoys. Elessar does understand their language, but he cannot be present to translate at all times, and there are few others up to the task."

"Fascinating!" Éomer, though apprehensive of his princess in such a dangerous position, could not help admire her dedication.

"Do you think so?" Lothíriel asked, pulling a thin book out to read the title. "I am having such rotten luck. All I have found thus far is a dull tome written by an old Harad philosopher about methods of war. Hardly dinner conversation."

"That would depend upon the type of affairs you attend!"

She laughed again, replacing the book. "Certainly not any I wish to be invited to," Lothíriel said. "It was a ghastly read. I nearly threw it into the fire when I finished, to spare anyone else from torturing themselves by it in the future."

Éomer stared up at her, drawing closer to the ladder as it squeaked loudly. "Ah, but now you have piqued my interest!" he said.

Lothíriel looked down, her eyebrows quirked. "I shall never reveal where I hid the book!" she said. "And you still have not satisfied my curiousity; why are you not at the banquet?"

This was difficult to answer, and Éomer floundered for a moment before he spoke again. "I was concerned when your father said that you would not be attending," he admitted. "I wanted to ensure that you were safe and well, and did not come to harm after I deserted you this morning."

"As you can see, I am very well," Lothíriel said with a kind smile which made him feel light-headed. "Do not miss supper on my account!"

"I am bored of feasts," Éomer said, not untruthfully. "I would rather be with you."

Lothíriel was flipping through the pages of another book. "You should not say such things," she said mildly.

"But they are true."

"Oh! Here is one I wish to read further." Whether she was avoiding the conversation or had truly found an appropriate book, he did not know. Lothíriel leaned forward slightly, making Éomer's stomach clench as she hovered in the air to look down the next several books. "So this is where they have been!" she cried. "I have never beheld a more poorly categorized library in my life! These ought to have been in the section devoted to works from other lands. This is the husbandry section!"

Éomer laughed along with her, and after a moment she glanced down at him again to ask, "While you are here—might I beg your help?"

"Of course!" he said.

"Then catch!"

Éomer had only a half-second before the book she had been holding fell towards him, and he caught it. Another, and another—it seemed to him that she was simply pulling out random books to cast downwards, and a short and rather difficult time later, his arms were full of dusty old books, and he sneezed.

"I do thank you," Lothíriel said, climbing down the ladder. "You are most generous to assist me in such a way. It is a hassle to climb up and down the ladder to retrieve each book!"

"Indeed," Éomer managed to say, wishing he could itch his nose. How he wished there was not a dozen books separating himself from his princess! She was smiling at him, appearing quite amused.

"You can set them down on the worktable," Lothíriel said, discarding her apron on said table. "I will be taking them to my chamber."

"I can do that!" Éomer insisted. "Please," he added as he realized the intensity of his tone.

"If you would prefer to, I shan't stop you," Lothíriel said. "As you are unable to offer me your arm, I will show the way."

The sun was setting at last, and as they passed into the corridor from the darkening library, servants were lighting lamps and were forced to step aside as Éomer barrelled through with his burden. The books were heavier than he expected, but with his eyes fastened on the form of the princess in front of him, he felt as light as air. Lothíriel did turn back towards him once, with a mirthful smile, asked,

"May I take a few?"

"That would be unnecessary," Éomer said. "I am already dusty, it would be unfair for you to suffer the same fate."

"Not at all!" Lothíriel said. "I am going to change into appropriate attire before supper, anyway."

"And now I must as well," he said dolefully, making her laugh. Oh, how he loved to make her laugh! Éomer could have followed the glorious sound to Mount Doom and back, but she turned down a southeasterly corridor and stopped before a black door. Lothíriel lifted the latch and opened it, allowing Éomer to pass through.

"Over here," she said, motioning for him to follow her. No lamps had been lit in her chamber yet, and it was very dim as he approached a tidy desk and Lothíriel began to move the books onto it. "There!" she said once they were stacked into three neat piles. "That ought to keep me busy for a few days."

Éomer was only half-listening. Moonlight was shining in from a window and casting her face into pale relief, and her ever-present smile was perfectly complemented by it. Were she _his_ betrothed, or even if she were free from claim, he would kissed her right then.

"I do thank you for your help," Lothíriel said, cutting through his thoughts as she bent over the desk to light several candles. A flickering, golden glow filled the room. "I will be along to the feast directly; you may tell my father if you wish. Or not—he shall see me soon enough."

"I was intending to wait for you," Éomer said, and then wishing he had not spoken. How much forwardness would she tolerate from him before she gave him a thorough setdown? "I mean to say—" Flustered, he stammered. "Er—I would not want you to enter the hall alone. Ahem."

Her lips were turned upwards, and for a moment she did not speak. "You are ever thoughtful, my lord," Lothíriel said. "I thank you for your consideration, and if you are truly intent on waiting, I shall hurry."

Éomer sunk into a chair as she disappeared into an adjoining room. To his surprise, however, she did not entirely shut the door between them, and though he could not see her, she continued to speak to him.

"As my father considers you his son," Lothíriel was calling. "I cannot help but think of you as a brother. Do excuse my immodesty, if you consider it so."

A brother! He felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart.

"Though you are far more considerate than my brothers often are," she added.

"They can be considerate enough," Éomer said. "If their interests are involved."

A giggle sounded back at him. "Has Amrothos told you of his lady?" Lothíriel asked.

"I have been avoiding him since he told me he wished to speak of her," Éomer admitted. "I am not sure if I have the fortitude to sit through Amrothos's poetic reminiscing."

"Too true!" With that, the door swung open again, and Lothíriel glided back in as she fastened on an earring. Éomer stared. She was dressed in a drapey dress of dark blue, with silver netting across her shoulders and bare arms. Her hair had been brushed and half-tied up, and though it was simple, Éomer was sure there he had never seen a more beautiful creature.

"Had I not been delayed in the library, I would have had my maid's assistance," Lothíriel said, having noticed his staring and clearly misinterpreted it. "But I am appropriate enough for an informal supper."

Éomer stood, and she approached him with her brows furrowed. Astonished, his mouth neary fell open as she brushed the streaks of dust from his tunic.

"There!" she said cheerily. "No one will know you were crawling about the library."

"Lothíriel…" Éomer said as his chest tightened with feeling. She looked up, and startled as he frowned. "I am _not_ your brother."

Her cheeks turned pink, and Éomer picked up her hand. "I apologize if—" she started to say.

"Do not," he said, and then grinned. "It might be in our best interest if we do not tell anyone that you have been entertaining an unmarried man, alone, in your chambers. Whatever would your betrothed say?"

Lothíriel's smile was tight, and he continued to watch her face as he tucked her arm through his. "Si is not a bad man," she said, and they strolled into the corridor. "He would understand the circumstances if I explained them." But her tone was, for the first time, unsure. Éomer wondered at this, feeling the warm glow of hope in his chest. "He is a very adept landlord," she added, much more confidently. "If—if not a sensitive partner."

Éomer had not expected her to even suggest that there was anything less than happiness in her arranged match, and he watched as emotion fluttered across her face. But then she shook herself. "But it matters little," she said, too airily to be convincing. "There are other considerations to marriage than—than—"

"Understanding?" Éomer prompted. "Attention? Consideration?"

Lothíriel sighed. "You do not know Si at all, my lord. He could be all of those things...were there love involved."

"Is there not?" he asked in a soft voice.

"Of course not!" she said. "That is—I care for him, and we were great friends as children. Children have much in common with one another; all love play and fun. But as they grow into adults...adults have so _little_ in common! Some are happy, some are serious, some enjoy reading and some do not, and some love horses and some love to take walks—"

"You have made your point!" Éomer said. "You are saying, as I understand it, that you and Lord Silius have grown apart as you grew older."

"Oh!" Lothíriel seemed surprised. "You understand."

"Yes," he said gravely. "It is one my few talents, to understand the ramblings of princesses."

She laughed, the anxiety in her face disappearing. "And you are one that enjoys teasing said princesses," Lothíriel said, raising her voice as they approached the din in the hall.

"Only when the reward is the sight of her lovely dimples," Éomer said, and daringly, lifted a finger to touch her cheek, which flushed red.

"My lord, you are a flirt!" she accused.

His response was delayed by their entrance into the hall, and he blinked in the sudden bright light. It was very loud; the meal had progressed quite far and he noticed many empty carafes of wine. "Where shall we sit?" Éomer leaned down to speak into her ear.

"My father has saved a place for me," Lothíriel said, and then smiled up at him. "We might shoo Amrothos away, and you can have a place as well."

"I do like that idea!"

Amrothos was easier to remove than Éomer expected, and waved Éomer into his seat as he wiped his face. "I am off to find my lady," he informed them as Éomer held out Lothíriel's chair for her to sit. "Oh, dear—I still have not told you of her, but it will have to wait!"

Éomer gave Lothíriel a pointed glance as Amrothos rushed off, and she giggled.

"I am relieved to see that you are feeling better," Imrahil leaned over slightly to address Éomer.

"Er—"

"And I thank you for accompanying Lothíriel. I had half a mind to go after her myself." Imrahil fixed his steely gaze onto his daughter, who returned it calmly.

"I had to finish the business which Elessar gave to me," she said. "It is easier to search through books in the sunlight rather by torch."

"Silius was here for the beginning of the meal, but left some time ago."

Éomer's heart soared. Was it possible that he could monopolize Lothíriel for the rest of the evening without competition? What joy! And was he imagining the stiffening of his princess's shoulders?

"That is very much like Si," Lothíriel said. "I shan't hold it against him, Father, and I hope you will not either."

Éomer forced himself to ignore her defense of her betrothed. She was so considerate that it was likely she would defend anyone. Imrahil had shifted his attention back to Elphir on his other side, and Lothíriel tilted her face upwards to smile at Éomer. "Well!" she said. "Now that we are guaranteed some time, will you oblige me at last and tell me of your uncle?"

He smiled, feeling his heart beat frantically. "I will indeed," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

_21st July, 3019 TA_

It was from glorious dreams that Éomer had to force himself to wake the following morning. But while his sleeping dreams of the princess were pleasant, knowing that he would likely see her in reality during the day was even sweeter.

But that would have to be delayed until the afternoon at the earliest, for Éomer had a difficult task for the morning.

Many of his countrymen, following the terrible battles a few months earlier, had been too wounded or ill to return to Rohan with the main force. Aragorn had been generous in allowing them to stay and providing for their upkeep. Éomer was somewhat eager to meet some old friends, but dreading the sight of those who had sacrificed limbs or looks to defeat the evil from the East. He had been lucky, with only a few scrapes and bruises to show for his involvement.

Éothain was looking grim as he arrived at Éomer's chamber, and they spoke little as they broke fast together in a breakfast room nearby. A grey, drizzly sort of sky was visible through the open windows, but it was still warm air that Éomer felt past his skin as they walked to the Healing Houses.

To his surprise, the two dozen or so Rohirrim that had been quartered there were all massively cheerful, very pleased to be visited by their king and showing no lingering signs of discontent of their lot. He was hailed by a barrage of half-empty mugs as he and Éothain stepped into the marble chamber, and his mouth fell open.

"Good morning, sire!" A young man, whose empty, right sleeve was pinned up. "We have been tasting the mead to ensure it is in good order for your drinking."

Éomer nearly laughed. "How thoughtful," he deadpanned. "And from whose cellars did you pilfer it from?"

"No pilfering," an older man growled. "The Gondorian king gave it to us. He's not a bad sort, for a southerner."

"I see you have been making the most of your time here," Éomer said. "If this is how you are treated in Gondor, I suspect many of you will not wish to return!"

"Only Aldred wants to stay," the old man said, pointing towards the young man, who flushed red. "But that has little to do with mead and everything to do with a woman."

"Gondorian women are enchanting, are they not?" Éomer said, half-teasing Aldred but feeling the truth of it in his being. "Tell me of your fortunate miss."

There was no shortage of mead, and even Éothain lightened with the effect of old friends and easy conversation. Éomer was relieved to see his countrymen in such good spirits, but he rather suspected that it was hard-won happiness. How many months had these men suffered in illness and pain before they reached this point? Nor were they all well; for the old man, who everyone called Fæder, winced every time he shifted on the edge of his cot, rubbing the stub of his knee with alarming frequency. Éomer wondered if Fæder was well enough for the journey, but knew the old man would refuse to stay. It was hardly any of Éomer's business, anyway—and Fæder asked several times of his family, who lived in Edoras, clearly impatient to reunite with them.

The morning passed quickly. Éomer did not want to leave the light-hearted conversation, but had several meetings that afternoon which he could not miss. And so, after much coaxing from his friends to stay (Éothain would not be budged from the company or from his drink), Éomer stood, promising to visit again the next day. Luncheon was sounding very nice to him just then, and he turned to leave.

In the doorway, staring most oddly at him, was the princess. Éomer stiffened slightly—how long had she been there?—but then gave her a fond smile and approached her, bowing. "Good day, Lothíriel," he said.

"Good afternoon, sire," she said, a bright smile overtaking her discontented expression. "I am beginning to notice that we find each other accidently rather a lot."

Éomer did not want to discuss that particular point further, and so asked, "What brings you here?"

"I was reading to a friend." Lothíriel lifted a thin volume which was tucked under her arm. "My father's old training master has been here since the battle at the Black Gate. He—he lost both of his legs, and he has taken it rather hard."

"It is kind of you to look after him so," Éomer said.

"As I said, he is a friend. When I was young, he was generous enough to volunteer to teach me to use a bow," Her smile grew rueful then. "I was abominable! But he kept working with me for months. Even now I cannot shoot straight."

"He sounds a most patient man!"

"He was," Lothíriel said. "And I hope he will be again. Elessar told me that he has never known a more cantankerous patient in all his years."

Perhaps it was her words, or the sounds of his maimed men still laughing behind him, but Éomer felt a tug of sadness in his heart, and he picked up the princess's chilled hand. Why, she was looking not at all her usual self. Her gaze dropped, and he held her hand like a vice, willing it to warm.

"I had a lovely time with you last night," Éomer said, trying for a lighter topic. "I do not recall telling you so, and I apologize—I am sure I have never enjoyed myself more." This was true, and if anything, he was holding himself back from explaining just how exuberant Lothíriel made him feel. After supper they had stayed in the hall, talking of anything and everything for hours; they had been left alone in the hall long after the last guests had left and servants had cleared away most of the meal. Éomer had not noticed that they were alone, so lost was he in her, and had been after midnight that she had yawned and called a respite. He could have gone on forever. "Are you well?" he asked gently, noticing a blush on her cheeks that was not fading.

"Yes, thank you!" Lothíriel lifted her chin, forcing a smile and worrying Éomer greatly. "I—I have only been burdened by more serious matters of late than I am accustomed to. I apologize if I seem out-of-sorts."

"Serious matters?" he asked. "No wonder you are down! Let us put those away for now—may I take you to luncheon? We can promise to only speak of the trivial."

"That sounds a lovely antidote," the princess said. "But—I...I am not sure—" She trailed off, looking desperately up at Éomer, who frowned. Had he imagined that she was beginning to feel affection for him? Was this her refusing his companionship because she did not desire it? Even the thought of it was making him feel ill. "I promised Lord Silius I would take luncheon with him," Lothíriel said, her words rushed. "I am sorry, sire; had I known—"

"It is no matter," Éomer said. "You are obliged to your betrothed more than you are to me—unfortunately." He gave her a wry smile. "I shall preserve my pride by convincing myself that you would prefer myself as your worthy companion, whether it be true or not."

"Oh! It is true," Lothíriel was smiling again, genuinely, and the sight of it nearly stopped his heart. "Si and I have talked about everything under the sun—we know each other better than we know ourselves, sometimes. With you, everything is different."

Different. If that was all Éomer would get, he would take it. "Dare I hope to see you later in the day?" he asked, and lifted her hand to his lips. He realized it was trembling, and pressed a kiss onto her knuckles before covering her hand with his other. There was a peculiar sort of expression in her eyes, and he did not understand it. How he wished he did!

"Hope is fleeting," Lothíriel said softly. "I—I am not sure if I dare encourage it in myself." It was such a strange statement that Éomer was not sure if she had even answered his query, or if she had been speaking her own thoughts. His concern deepened.

"Lothíriel—" Éomer began, but she dipped into a curtsy, and hurrying through a "Farewell!", she turned and rushed away, and he was left staring at the trail of her wine-red gown, wishing that he had known what to say.

* * *

Under normal circumstances, Éomer would have taken his supper alone in his rooms that night. He was exhausted from the hours of meetings and feeling unsettled and a little mopey from his encounter with Lothíriel. But he dressed in fine clothing, tried to cheer himself and entered the hall late. Aragorn was already there, and he was sitting at a high table with his wife on his right and to Éomer's astonishment—Lothíriel on his left. She was looking wan to his eyes, though her lips were lifted in a smile. Lord Silius sat on her other side, looking pristine but bored. Éomer walked as though in a trance to a table where Éothain was waiting.

"Warn't supposed to be this fancy," his friend growled. "I din realize 'til I got here it was bloody formal!"

"Why is it formal?" Éomer asked, taking a seat and dreading the answer. Why would Lothíriel be sat by the king?

"'Official betrothal feast'," Éothain said, and then winced as he touched his head. "And too much mead for me this morn! I think I'll be taking my leave within the hour." But Éomer was not listening; he was staring at the princess, far away though she was. Surely he was not imagining that she was so unhappy? How could that be? She had shown no reluctance to marry her lord on the first night Éomer had arrived; why was she glum now? It made Éomer's head and heart both ache. If she was determined to marry Lord Silius, Éomer did wish her to be happy as fully as possible. Was it his own fault to be causing this discontent in Lothíriel? Perhaps...perhaps it was time for him to retreat. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, which was not allayed by Aragorn's congratulatory speech.

It was, all in all, a most miserable meal.

Éomer might have ducked out early with Éothain, but he noticed that musicians were lining up as the tables were cleared. So there would be dancing. Though he should not, he could not help desiring a dance with the princess; if he was to give up the chase, he wanted at least to part on good terms.

He was more fortunate than he expected; the fourth dance of the evening he was able to partner with Lothíriel. She had already danced with her betrothed, her king, and her father, and Éomer noticed that an odd sort of glaze was clouding her eyes. The music was just beginning, and he pulled her by the waist until their torsos were very nearly touching.

"I thought you would have been happier," Éomer said, his voice gentle as he tried to gauge her reaction. A brittle smile tugged at her lips, and her fearless gaze rose to meet his.

"I am well enough," Lothíriel said. "I have always known this would one day happen."

He could not bring himself to make further conversation. Though it had always been easy between them, the rigidity of Éomer's hidden feelings, and Lothíriel's strange and withholding mood made for a tension between them. She lapsed into silence as well, frowning in a most uncharacteristic way. A sudden, simmering resentment overtook Éomer, for Lord Silius and the adverse way which he affected his betrothed. Any relationship where one party was so unhappy… Éomer could not believe she was as nonchalant about the circumstances as she tried to convince him.

The song was drawing to a close, and Éomer's chest constricted with anguish. How could he willingly never speak to the woman he loved again? Resentment was heightening to fury, and he squeezed her hands tightly as they slowed to a stop. Then he noticed—silver tears were glittering on Lothíriel's downturned lashes. Astounded, Éomer stared as she looked up at him, her dark eyes speaking volumes.

"I am sorry," she said. "My behavior has not been the thing at all. I am...feeling as though I might be well restored by fresh air. Would you escort me to the gardens for a turn?"

"As long as I am in no danger of reprimand from your betrothed," Éomer said.

"He likely has already left."

"Then—it would be my pleasure." He wound her trembling hand through his arm, placing his own over it to stop her shaking. As the next song was beginning, Éomer felt confident that they had escaped relatively unnoticed.

The sky twinkled with thousands of white stars, and the air was fresh and cool. The sounds of laughter and dancing soon fled into the night, and the sound of their footsteps on the stone path was magnified. There was little light in the garden; a few tall torches had been set up, but otherwise all was still and dim.

"I must apologize again." The quiet was broken with another sigh from the princess. "I have used you most despicably—I was desperate for solitude to gather my thoughts."

"Your sense of what might be considered despicable is somewhat warped, I think," Éomer said. "I do not feel used nor offended; in fact, I feel that you consider me trustworthy enough for such a task, and I am flattered!"

A short laugh from Lothíriel—the first he had witnessed for some time. "You, my lord, are utterly sensible. I do appreciate that in a companion!"

"Since you value it so highly, I worry to think of how you consider the practicality of your erstwhile companions!"

"That should be no secret," Lothíriel said, and Éomer noticed the worry lines fading from her face even in the faint light. "I have been around the ridiculous nearly all my life. That is why I must find such amusement from it!"

"I can understand how being related to Amrothos has encouraged that in you."

He was rewarded with another tinkling laugh, and Lothíriel laid her opposite hand on his arm as well. "Oh, Éomer!" she said. "You are the first person who dares to encourage my banter. How I treasure your friendship!"

His heart thudded at the sound of his name from her lips; what a sublime sound it was! He did not comment upon it, instead saying, "I treasure yours as well; possibly more than you can know. But I worry for the sorrow in your face!"

They paused by the fountain by which they had passed on that second day, and Lothíriel sunk onto the stone rim. Her layers of silk skirts rustled as she folded her hands, and Éomer sat close to her.

"I know it is not my place," he continued in a low voice. "And I know you and your lord so little compared to others. But my sister tells me that I have keen sight, and I...I do not believe that you will find happiness with Silius."

"Sight indeed," Lothíriel said with a lengthy sigh. "Certainly better than mine! I have thoroughly convinced myself otherwise, but you are correct. Now that I am feeling the consequences of my pride, I am quite diminished."

Éomer's arm snaked around her shoulders, and he stroked her arm as she shivered. Feeling bold with the brightening of hope, he lifted her chin, and seeing no wariness in her gaze, at last claimed her mouth with his own.

The effect that this had on Lothíriel was immediate—he could feel her slender body begin to tremble, and a whimper made her throat vibrate. But she did not pull away; in fact, if Éomer was not mistaken, her hands gripped his arms tightly as he pulled her even closer. He could feel the rise and fall of her bosom as her breath heightened. Éomer began to feel dizzy as she responded with fervor, and instead of a whimper, this time she moaned against his mouth. Any reason he could have claimed up to that point was now fading, and he felt the warmth of her skin underneath his fingertips, even through the silken folds of her frock. He could taste her sweet breath on his tongue, and against his better judgment his hand rose, searching, and he found a pin in her hair. He tugged on it, a mass of soft curls falling down her back and fluttering across her face, tickling his own.

Lothíriel broke away with a breathless giggle, and Éomer opened his eyes, his heart fluttering at the sight of her disarray. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her eyes were dark, sensuous pools, even though they were crinkled at the corners with her smile.

"Lothíriel…" Éomer said, his voice hoarse. He could not help winding his hands behind her neck and through her hair, letting out a tormented breath at the sensation.

"No!" she said, her eyes fluttering half-shut. "Say nothing. Please."

"But—"

"Ah!" Lothíriel placed a long finger over his lips. " _Nothing_."

Éomer did wish he could express what and how much he was feeling, but perhaps Lothíriel's refusal to allow him was best. He did not have the words that could convey it to any accuracy. How could he feel so lost and yet so at home in the same moment? Kissing the woman he loved was a much more titillating and heartening feeling that he could have expected.

"Éomer," Lothíriel said, and she straightened. Éomer's arms felt cold and empty without her. "You have decided me." She swept to her feet, and before he could sort out his thoughts into words to say anything, she had disappeared behind a massive rose bush, walking back towards the hall of light and laughter.

* * *

 _Whew, that happened fast! I originally wrote this story to be only five chapters, and so the quickness made sense, even if it's a bit disappointing for the reader (and the author re-reading :P). But just so's you know, this story expanded to TWELVE chapters, and continues past the original ending. Just because you're in love doesn't mean your story is over..._


	5. Chapter 5

_22nd July, 3019 TA_

Éomer had a bitter taste in his mouth as he woke the morning of his departure, just as he had the previous morning following the betrothal feast. His actions were mechanical, and he dressed in his finest riding clothes without thinking of it. His thoughts, tumultuous and churlish, were not on himself or the task ahead of him, but on the dark-haired, dark-eyed sprite that had taken his heart captive with seemingly no intention of returning it.

The sun was golden, streaming in through the pillared windows of Aragorn's house, and Éomer almost hated the sight of it. It was fitting for the day that his uncle would begin his final journey to Edoras to be buried amongst his forebears, but it did not match Éomer's mood one bit. And what an inconvenience that was.

He had not seen the princess at all since she had left him in the gardens. He had been bold enough to return to the hall to search her out—to see her, not to approach her—but she had been absent from the festivities. The following day, Éomer had trekked to his uncle's temporary burial site to see to the preparations of the body for transport, but even that night at supper the party from Dol Amroth had not been in attendance. It was deeply foreboding and added to Éomer's new suspicions of his lady love—had she purposefully led him on? If that was the case—what a fool he was!

He was just finishing shoving the last of his personal effects into his saddlebags when a resonant knock sounded on the door. Before he could growl at the person bothering him, it swung open, and he turned with a scowl quite ready to rail at anyone in that moment.

But Éomer's mouth went dry. The princess, dressed in a regal blue with white ribbons binding her braids, flushed and smiling, was gazing at him expectantly. He stared back.

"What—" he began.

"I found the book!" Lothíriel said, and glided towards him, opening a book that had been tucked under her arm and showing it to him. "I mean to say—Elessar had asked for any book on the Harad language, preferably a useful one, but I was searching to know the origins of their language. I thought that might be helpful to know, as one who knows the origins or sister languages of Haradric!"

Éomer was not looking at the book, at once mesmerized and irritated by her shining eyes. What was she thinking, barging into his rooms in such a manner? And apparently avoiding him after their kiss…

"And so I was reading this book late into the night, and—why, Éomer! Whatever is the matter?" Lothíriel stopped her prattle, and stared up at him with a confused expression, as she perhaps noticed his mood for the first time. But her bafflement was so sincere, so profound that Éomer felt his exasperation deflating, and he sighed.

"You, miss, are the matter," he growled. "I cannot believe that a woman so thoughtful as you could intentionally or accidently leave me in such dire straits with nary a word of confidence or hope!"

"Oh!" Lothíriel's astonishment was replaced with a bright smile. "You are referring to the night of the feast, of course."

Éomer grimaced. " _Of course_."

"I did not mean to rush away that like, you know," she said. "I mean to say—I did, as I had a specific purpose—but I was too distracted to inform you of what I intended. And I did not wish to say anything until the situation was sorted."

"Sorted?"

"I am not going to marry Silius," Lothíriel said simply, and her smile as she looked up at him was oddly wry. "It was necessary of me to tell my father straightaway."

Éomer was stunned into silence. She had broken off her betrothal? After their kiss? Well, that was what he had intended all along, was it not?—that she marry him instead of Lord Silius. His thoughts were disjointed as he struggled to comprehend this. But he had to know one thing, which would decide his course.

"Why are you not marrying Silius?" Éomer asked at long last.

"You are asking me why?" It was Lothíriel's turn for uncertainty.

"Yes!"

"Surely you know why! Unless my understanding of your character is warped and you dally with ladies betrothed to others for your own amusement!"

Éomer seized her shaking shoulders, glaring down at her. "I would never," he forced through gritted teeth. "Dally with any woman unless I had my own intentions."

"Do not tell me your plan was to break off my betrothal from the beginning!" Her gaze was accusatory, and a scowl had settled on her face.

"I will not lie!" Éomer said. "I loved you from the moment I saw you. But had I seen any happiness between you and your lord I would not have interfered. Do not pretend I misinterpreted the situation! I saw a pompous man uninterested in his beautiful, happy wife-to-be, and believing that I might appreciate such the woman more and give her a greater chance at joy—I sought her company so that I could divine our suitability."

Lothíriel's lips twitched.

"And may I say in my defense," Éomer added. "It is very difficult to stay away from someone you love, whom you wish to be with for—forever, really."

"I do agree," she said, her features relaxing. "And I am here, am I not?"

He stared. Could she—did she mean to say—?

"Éomer…" Lothíriel's tone was soft, and she reached up a hand to the side of his face. Tingles broke out across his skin where they touched, and newfound amazement at her beauty made Éomer's heart thump faster. "I cannot claim that I loved you straightaway. Whether it was your intention to woo me away from Si or not, you have been incredibly, thoroughly successful."

Éomer swallowed convulsively, all too aware of how closely she was standing to him. Her gaze was clear, heartfelt, and tender—but he could do nothing but stare. Was she truly saying that—that she loved him?

"But—" he began to say.

"I do think I ought to be honest. I suspected your feelings when you came to the library," she said. "I—I was intrigued, but not repulsed. I suppose that speaks to my own ignorance and curiosity! I have heard of love and affection my whole life but have never anticipated it for myself. I did not think—" Here Lothíriel blushed a pretty pink. "I did not consider that my own feelings might begin to reciprocate."

"You care for me?" Éomer said, his throat closing around the words.

"Yes," she said, smiling. "I always considered you a friend and a pleasant companion, but it became something more the morning I saw you with your men. Perhaps it is because you consistently exhibited the qualities that Si always lacked—easiness, humor, consideration—and that rather made me bite my tongue. I began to feel guilty for betraying both you and Silius."

Éomer felt as though he was reeling from this barrage of information. And yet it was not concluded.

"My father had arranged the betrothal feast as a surprise for me," Lothíriel said. "I was most distraught. I had wanted more time to sort out my own feelings—and whether yours matched them, before I continued on the course to marry Si. That is the true reason for my unhappiness that night; not because I was fearing marriage to Si."

Éomer was too exuberant to be upset anymore, but he faked a scolding tone as he said, "You little vixen, you!"

Lothíriel winced. "My behavior has not been above reproach," she admitted. "But neither has yours, and if you love me half as much as you act, I hope to earn ready forgiveness."

He caught her hand in his as it fell from his face, and he kissed her palm. "Ever hopeful!" Éomer said. "But you have not offered reparations."

"Reparations are a legal matter," Lothíriel said, and she dimpled. "You must prepare an itemized list of the damages done if you wish for amends."

"I am afraid I haven't the patience for the legal system, and I must leave today." Even as he was speaking, he was searing his mind with the memory of her face—so alight, so sweet. "Any agreements between us must be made before I ride out, which I believe is in less than an hour."

"I am not going to mince my words," Lothíriel stood straighter. "As far as I can tell with my little experience, I have fallen in love with you and I am quite determined that you shall be the man I marry. By my choice, and none others."

"What of my choice?"

Lothíriel bit her lip in thought. "Well—I am not a tyrant. You may have a say, this one time, as long as your desires are aligned with mine."

"If this is at all indicative of our future, I am beginning to fear it!" The teasing was so natural that Éomer had completely forgotten his earlier annoyance, and was laughing along with Lothíriel as he brought his hands up her arms and to her face, where he traced her cheeks with his thumbs, awed by her precious dimples and the thought that she want to marry him. But it was all too implausible to unravel nor had he any wish to, and so he did the most natural thing in the world and kissed her again, and again, and again…

A pounding on the door made them both start. Again it opened without delay, and Amrothos's moppy head peeked in. "We are waiting for you, Éomer," he said, "And—Lothíriel! What are you doing here?"

"I am telling Éomer farewell," Lothíriel said cheerily. "It is good diplomacy, you know." She received a suspicious look from her brother before he returned his attention to Éomer.

"Our horses are all saddled," Amrothos informed him. "I am riding out of the city with you—is not that a lark? I will at last have the opportunity to tell you of my lady!"

Lothíriel was quivering with withheld laughter next to him, and Éomer felt his spirits deflating as Amrothos's head disappeared behind the door, which shut with a deep thud. When would he see his princess again? When could they marry—and what would Imrahil say? As if reading his thoughts, Lothíriel said softly,

"I am going to speak to my father as soon as you leave. I promise—well, I suppose all I can promise is that I am yours."

"You will not be wandering about dark gardens with other men?" Éomer asked, creasing his brows.

"Only you," she said, and reached up to kiss him once more. "I feel far more committed when my heart is involved."

"The more you speak, the more I do not wish to leave!" Éomer groaned. "Come with me."

Lothíriel smiled. "And what would Elessar say, that you lure away such a helpful subject?"

"Aragorn is my friend; he would understand!" He took his time to memorize the sight of her swollen lips from their earlier kissing, his gut wrenching to think of how long it might before they could marry.

"You are worried," she said. "Do not! I cannot bear such unhappiness. Go with joy—otherwise we will both be miserable."

"As you say." Éomer slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, and pulled her close for one last kiss. Which became another, and another, and another…

Another knock at the door, and Éomer squeezed his princess's hand before he left, unsurprised to see Éothain's scowling face. But he could not resist, once more—he turned, one foot still in his chamber, to catch a final glimpse of Lothíriel. How radiantly she beamed at him!

It was the fourth day since he saw her, and they would marry.

 ** _END OF PART ONE_**


	6. Chapter 6

So efficient was Éomer's trip back to Rohan, and so hasty the subsequent burial of his uncle that he was soon brooding for his lady in Gondor with the enthusiasm of a lovesick youth. Somehow all of his proclaimed maturity had disappeared days earlier with his first sight of Lothíriel, and following his pursuit of her he felt younger than he had in years. With her love he felt that he would never frown again, though each day crawled by with unnatural slowness as he waited for word from her.

Truth be told, he harbored no small amount of anxiety about Imrahil's reaction towards his daughter's marital intentions. Éomer began to wish that he had delayed his return even just half an hour to inform Imrahil himself. His being far away could not possibly lend himself well to his prospective father-in-law, perhaps especially in this instance. What man fled before asking his lady's father for permission to marry?

But just as Éomer had refused to consider defeat in his pursuit of his lady love, he could not allow himself to dwell on the possibility of failure now. Certainly not since he had gone through the bother of securing Lothíriel's affections while falling irretrievably in love with her in the process.

But now another enormous quandary loomed ahead of him: Meduseld was in an unfit state, and Rohan was not yet producing the surplus needed for Lothíriel to live to the standards she was undoubtedly accustomed to, as the daughter of a wealthy Gondorian prince. Whether they would be fortunate enough to wed before the year was out or unlucky enough to wait—Éomer had substantial work ahead him. Not only for Lothíriel's sake, but for his people as well. Years of hardship, famine and war had left far too many homeless, out of work and lacking food stores, and this would be the next obstacle for Éomer to overcome.

And for that, he needed Éowyn's undivided attention.

His sister had done remarkably well during recent months; not only had she scrounged up acceptable guest quarters for the influx of travellers they had hosted during the summer, but she had planned and presided the funeral for their uncle with an tremendous amount of grace and patience. Éomer could not quite remember Éowyn ever exhibiting these qualities before, but he could only admire her new serenity. Gone were the shadows under her eyes, and her chin was held high and her eyes bright; not from obstinacy any longer, but with a peace and warmth that Éomer recognized as the doing of Faramir almost as soon as his return from Gondor and his own falling in love.

But, he soon realized, Éowyn's future would have to be secured before he could give proper attention to his own. She had not spoken to him of her own wedding as yet; whether that could be counted to her newfound patience or her unwillingness to pester him with the other problems they were facing in the wake of their uncle's death, he did not know. It needed to be dealt with nonetheless, and so Éomer put his selfish feelings away for the time being and arranged to take Éowyn to the stables on a bright, sunny morning.

This in itself was not unusual; they were merely out of practice. Many years had been marked by their riding together, as children and youths, but when adulthood loomed they had been apart too often to continue the tradition. Éowyn did not seem the least suspicious, stopping to greet the stablehands on their way into the shady building. Éomer's impatience had to be curbed, and he gave his sister a brittle smile when she at last joined him.

"A lovely day to be riding," Éowyn said cheerily. "Let us be on our way afore the sun turns too hot."

"Soon enough. First, you are to choose your new mount."

She tilted her head to the side, a picture of bafflement.

"Come now," Éomer said. "I know your Windfola was killed on the Pelennor. You have only been borrowing since then and it is high time that ended. Take your pick!"

"But—these are Uncle's horses!"

A pause, and Éowyn's bright face flushed red as she realized her error. Éomer waited a moment before saying, "He would have wanted to gift you a new one, especially as you are to be married soon. In his place, I am offering the best. You may have to choose one for Faramir as well; I doubt he will be visiting any time in the near future."

"Oh, Éomer! You mean it? Truly!"

"Of course! Now choose your bride-gift, or I shall have to procure dozen candlesticks for you instead!" It was only a jest, but it served his purpose; at once Éowyn began to take closer inspection of their uncle's—nay, the king's horses. Éomer's horses. These steeds came from noble lines and were widely acclaimed as the best, both bred and trained. At present Éomer could not claim any credit for Théoden's management, but he intended to continue the traditions of his fathers very faithfully indeed. Even Grima's influence had not besmirched the king's herds, which was nigh a miracle, but it did make Éomer feel the burden more heavily.

He wondered briefly if Lothíriel enjoyed riding.

While Éowyn was examining a white stallion, Éomer wandered about, greeting the remaining horses. The older ones he remembered from his youth, though most were retired. A grey nose peeked out of a stall curiously, and he paused, the large black eyes that accompanied the nose being very familiar. Éomer stroked the mare's chin (as it was obviously a female), perceiving that there was a family connection between this mare and his own Firefoot. He would have to study the stablemaster's books to find out exactly how. She was still quite young, certainly less than a decade old, but her lines were extraordinarily graceful and she carried herself with no small amount of confidence. In fact, as he failed to produce a treat the curious look in her eye grew lofty, and she snorted in his face.

"No need for such cheek, miss," Éomer admonished. "Clearly you are plenty spoiled already; are you being courted by any stablehand in particular? Hmm?"

"I do think you are about to secure her attentions for yourself." He was interrupted by Éowyn, who was leading out a tall, white stallion and looking immensely smug.

"Not for myself." Éomer looked askance at the stallion. "I say, Éowyn; you do aim high. Shadowfax is his sire, no?"

"Oh, yes! I did not expect Béorhof to take to me, but I suppose I am feeling lucky today." The stallion lowered its head to nuge Éowyn's shoulder, and she laughed. "Yes, sir, we are going for a run!" she told the horse. "But you must have a saddle first."

While a stablehand was assisting Éowyn, Éomer sought out the stablemaster to discuss the grey mare. Aldwig was in a stall with the farrier, holding a frantic horse's head whilst the farrier tried to dislodge a thorn from its foot.

"'Alf a mo', sire," Aldwig said without looking back.

Éomer leaned against a tall, gilded column, yawning as he half-watched Éowyn flustering the poor stablehand by insisting she secure the bit herself. Béorhof was proving himself very patient with his new mistress, which surprised Éomer. Most of Shadowfax's offspring were on the tempestuous side.

"How can I help ye, sire?" Aldwig was securing the stall door which he just exited, the farrier shaking his head with frustration as he stalked away. Éomer grinned to himself before speaking.

"I want to know about that little grey lady—" He pointed to the mare, who was still watching him with definite interest. "Her bloodlines in particular."

"Ah! I thought she might catch yer eye at some time. 'Er name is Rofsefa; 'er dam is Ligetmiere and 'er sire is Fyrwind; 'is last breeding. Yer own steed came from Fyrwind as well, no?"

"Indeed; I believe so."

"The three share the same colorin'," Aldwig said. "All born black, all dappled by the time they were comin' on five years old."

"What has she been trained for?"

"Ridin', mostly. She's clearly meant to be a lady's horse, if ye take my meaning. She 'as a delicate step. Not fit for hard work or any of the killin'."

"Certainly not," Éomer agreed. "Is there a reason she has not been sold? Has she a poor temperament? Health issues?"

"Healthy as they come, sire, and hardy, too. A bit stubborn if she takes a dislike to ye, but she'll only put up a small fuss before 'er training takes over. A good jumper, though not as fast as Fyrwind. Truth be told, sire," Aldwig continued. "I ain't sold any 'orses because ye ain't told me to. King's 'erds, king's prerogative."

"Do not sell her," Éomer said, now fully decided. "I know a lady who will like her very much." _I hope,_ he added to himself. Remembering Lothíriel's preference for wearing dark blues as well as her black locks, he was thinking she would look very striking astride Rofsefa.

But he was torn away from his pleasant musings with Éowyn's chirpy command that he ready himself at once, and what in Béma's name was distracting him so. He bore her teasing in good humor, and just soon enough to placate her, Firefoot was saddled and they were riding out of Edoras.

The sun was bright, the sky was clear, and the wind whipping about them was fresh and clean. Firefoot was rested from the ride back from Gondor, and fairly brimming with energy but not crazed with it. Éomer glanced over at Éowyn several times, admiring how well she was handling Béorhof. It was clear that they were already bonded together, and with her fair hair they made a very pretty picture.

"There we are then!" Éowyn called happily, as they reined in the horses nigh upon the banks of the Snowbourne. "I do think I shall keep him!"

Éomer laughed. "He would follow you to Ithilien, if you decided otherwise!"

"Then it is a good thing I have decided in his favor."

They dismounted, leading the horses to drink downstream while they splashed away the heat of the day in the cool water themselves. Éomer was sure he had not felt more energized since his return to Rohan, but that Lothíriel was far away dulled his swelling happiness. He did not realize that his emotions showed until Éowyn, with a wry smile, said,

"Thinking of your lady love, eh?"

He gave her a sharp glance, but she was unaffected.

"There is no use pretending otherwise," Éowyn added airily. "Do you know, I received the _most_ interesting correspondence from Faramir just a few days ago."

"Really!"

"Oh, yes. Evidently the juiciest bits of gossip can reach even Faramir, immersed in Ithilien and his books…"

Éomer felt a scowl begin to threaten. "Does your intended not have anything better to do than to send you court gossip from Minas Tirith?"

"The gossip is of _you_ , Éomer; and I am beginning to think him quite justified to inform me! You certainly have not told me yourself! Even though I have been waiting _most_ patiently for some sort of confidence."

He gave a long-suffering sigh, and began to stroll back towards Edoras through the tall, waving grass, their horses plodding along behind them. He was truthfully struggling to think of exactly what to say to Éowyn; somehow, simply informing her that he was to be married did not seem quite the thing. Nor did admitting to falling in love really encapsulate the full range of what had happened…

"You are thinking too much," Éowyn interrupted his musings. "A simple explanation will do. I have already heard the embellished version from Faramir."

"It is only that—er—I am going to wed Faramir's cousin. That ought to be all of interest to him, anyway."

She gave him a disbelieving stare. "Is that all, I wonder."

"Very well! It so happened that I fell in love with Lothíriel the moment I saw her, and somehow successfully wooed her away from her previous betrothed. If you have heard of a scandal, I suppose that must be it. Amrothos's doing, I would wager."

Éowyn was silent for a moment. Then, "When am I to meet her?"

Éomer was taken aback by this, and paused. "Er—"

"I cannot delay asking you about the arrangements of my wedding any longer. I have withheld because of the burdens we have lately faced—especially you—but really, Éomer! I think that now you have a rather exciting reason to return to Gondor you might oblige. I should like to meet your lady at my wedding. If I am so lucky to marry before I die, that is."

"Well!" Éomer laughed, rubbing his chin in thought. "If that is the next time I may see Lothíriel, than we had better start making arrangements as soon as possible. Would next month suit?"

He has successfully shocked her; Éowyn's mouth fell open. " _No!_ " she gasped. "That is not enough time at all!"

"Then you must chose the date."

Quickly enough to be suspicious, Éowyn began to explain why the autumnal solstice would be the best possible time for her wedding. It was obvious she had been thinking of it for some time, and had probably decided as much with Faramir. Éomer listened patiently, amused at her uncharacteristic chattering, for several minutes. At last—following a lengthy speech on how the mountain passes should still be clear from snow for the sake of travelling back to Rohan following the wedding—Éomer interrupted with a grin.

"Have you already written the invitations?"

Éowyn shut her mouth, glaring. "I have _not_ ," she said. "I have been awaiting your approval."

"My approval? You do not need it, sister; simple and plain instructions of what I need to do and when I need to be there (assuming you will be so kind as to tell me _where_ your wedding is to occur), and I shall comply implicitly."

Her lips formed a small O, and after what Éomer thought was a surprised moment, Éowyn said, rather timidly, "I hope you will not object—I have agreed to have the ceremony in Ithilien."

Now this, more than anything else thus far, did astonish Éomer. "I am laboring under the belief that brides prefer to wed in their own homes," he said finally.

"Yes," Éowyn said, looking at the grass ahead of them awkwardly. "I would, really I would! But...Faramir wanted to marry in our new home. Ithilien was in such a shabby state, you know, and there was not a steward over the lands for such a long time before Aragorn gave him the title. I—I think he sees an opportunity to show how well the palace and grounds have been repaired. And—" Here she blushed. "It would be easier—logistically, I mean—for the honeymoon afterwards."

"Ah." Éomer nodded knowingly. "No use going through the hassle of travelling after the wedding; sending the guests away would be much more convenient. I understand completely."

Éowyn glanced anxiously at him. "You do not mind, do you? I did not think you would; you have been so... _relaxed_ this summer, despite everything."

He gave a bark of laughter. "Despite everything? Very funny! But you are correct enough—I do not mind; at least not enough to try to fight both you and your intended." By this time they were climbing the foothills of Edoras, and the guards by the gates hailed them both. Éomer added, when they were out of earshot, "I am afraid you will be depriving the Rohirrim of a party; some may never forgive you of such a thing."

"Posh," Éowyn said. "They are all invited."

Éomer lifted his brows. "Is Faramir aware of that?"

"Er—no. And if you could refrain from mentioning it, I shall do so myself. Besides," she perked up as she grinned at him suddenly. "Your wedding could be the bash the people of Edoras are wanting. Far more important than mine, for you are a king wedding your queen and Faramir merely a prince."

The idea of bringing Lothíriel to Rohan for a proper Rohirric wedding appealed to Éomer in a very intense way, but with a pang he said dully, "The bride prefers to marry in her own home, Éowyn, even if you are conceding to Faramir in this case."

"Oh." There was no mistaking Éowyn's regretful agreement. The remainder of their walk to the stables was concluded in silence, and soon after they parted, following an affectionate squeeze from his sister before she bounded off happily.

Éowyn's future sufficiently dealt with in his mind, Éomer brooded over his own uncertain course as he brushed Firefoot down. Why had he not received a letter from Lothíriel yet? There had been one courier from Minas Tirith since his return, but only various contracts and reports from Aragorn had been included. If this silence and therefore his fretting continued, he was liable to lose his good humor entirely.


	7. Chapter 7

Twelve days after his arrival in Edoras, in the oppressive heat of the last weeks of summer and with no small amount of relief, Éomer at last received two letters by courier; one which allayed his fears and one which increased them.

 _I cannot like the suddenness of this arrangement,_ Imrahil had written. _I do not doubt the sincerity of either yours or Lothíriel's sentiments, but my heart forbids against allowing two people who have known each other less than four days to wed. I must insist on a long betrothal, especially at the heels of Lothíriel's engagement to Lord Silius._

Lothíriel's enclosed letter was more heartening. _I think Father fears a scandal,_ she wrote. _He wants me to stay in Minas Tirith until next spring at the earliest! He would not say plainly why, but as his timeframe is exactly nine months, I can imagine just what he suspects of us._ This made Éomer growl with frustration; how could Imrahil think him such a cad that he would purposefully besmirch Lothíriel's honor. Why, nothing could be farther from the truth! Her letter continued, _I also believe that Father intends to keep us waiting longer than the nine months; his unwillingness to promise a spring wedding made that quite obvious. He fears that we do not know each other well enough to rub along well together after marriage, which I find wholly ridiculous. I can name a handful of noblewomen who did not meet their bridegrooms until their wedding day. Fear not—I shall wear him down in the end. I do miss you terribly; if Father insists on waiting too long, perhaps you and I can think of...alternative arrangements that will suit us better._

Éomer laughed out loud at this. He could see clearly the mischievous glint in Lothíriel's eyes, and the precise quirk of her eyebrows that made her so teasing and so adorable all at once. Clearly she was insinuating an elopement, which to the man in him, was an excellent idea, and the sooner the better. But Éomer knew that with Lothíriel a princess of Gondor and he a king, he would likely be forced to put his personal desires below the importance of a _wise_ course. His uncle would be pleased that he was thinking so nobly, but it made Éomer grit his teeth. Of course he did not betray his frustrations as he sat down to answer both letters, two days later and following significant pondering on his part.

 _I am sure Lothíriel had already told you her opinion of delaying the wedding,_ he wrote to Imrahil. _I will add my perspective to hers: unless there will be instance where she and I might become more familiar with each other before marrying, there is really no purpose to waiting longer than needful. Two years apart will do little more to acquaint us than one. I will not pretend that Rohan is not in dire need of queen; in fact, the sooner it has one, the better. There is much work left to do before the land is fruitful once more, and it is a massive undertaking for me alone. Lothíriel has proven herself wonderfully capable of such a task, and I need her more than I can convey._

This was to appear to Imrahil's charitable nature. Éomer did not quite like giving the impression that he was incapable of being king and he needed Lothíriel as some sort of indentured servant (albeit queen), but Imrahil was a prince himself, and he would hopefully understand the underlying plea.

To Lothíriel, Éomer's missive was far more to the point.

 _I am determined that we marry this very year_ , he said _. I will admit to being a weak man, and every day without you grates upon me in the worst way. Surely you laugh that I suggest such a thing, but my uncle once told me that love is similar to a pox. The older you are when you get it, the worse the symptoms are. He wed my aunt when he was thirty years old, so I cannot help but think him correct._

 _If you are not adverse such a suggestion, you might even search out a tutor to teach you Rohirric, even if just to show your father how serious you are._

To tease her, Éomer included a Rohirric dictionary with the letter. Her reply to this, several days later,was more scathing than he expected, though by the end of her response he was roaring with laughter. She had written it, of course, entirely in Rohirric.

 _You odious man! Did you not think that I, as a sovereign princess of your neighboring country, was not taught your language from youth as a necessity to the ongoing relations between our nations? I have never heard such drivel, even from you, nonsensical flatterer._

 _I did enjoy perusing your book, however; there are a great many words and turn-of-phrase which I was not taught. Words not fit for a princess to use, that is. I look forward to employing them in the future._

The busiest time of the year—first harvest of autumn, which also happened to involve the butchering and preserving of livestock which would not last through the winter—happened to coincide with the preparations for Éowyn's wedding. Éomer could not, in good consciousness, object to Meduseld being turned upside down for the sake his sister packing away her belongings and wardrobe which had been prepared that summer. But even with the joy of Lothíriel's glorious letters (which now arrived regularly every eight days with the courier), Éomer felt harassed and frazzled as he struggled to be both a good king and a good brother; the duties of both which seemed to contrast with one another in the worst way. One day he was busy dividing with Éowyn their parents' worldly possessions into what she would take with her to Ithilien and what would be left behind; the next he would be threshing in the fields with other volunteers to assist a farmer who had broken his leg a few weeks earlier and who feared his family starving without the harvest. Éomer had very little sleep; in fact it was the anticipation of Lothíriel's next correspondence and the knowledge that soon the autumn's work would be concluded that kept him sane. He took to counting the days until Éowyn's wedding, but for a different reason than his sister.

 _I was very pleased to receive Éowyn's invitation to the wedding,_ Lothíriel wrote to him, sometime in August. _That is to say—I certainly expected to attend, as a member of Faramir's family—but an invitation from your sister has made me feel as though I am a part of your family as well. Is that too presumptuous of me? I realize that in such a vein it would also have to be concluded that Amrothos will be your brother as much as Éowyn my sister. Any reluctance you may experience on this front is well-deserved! Only this morning, Amrothos was on the verge of tears because his lady was leaving the city for her father's country home. As it is only a half-day's ride away, my sympathies were not touched._

 _On another note—Father has agreed to settle our marriage contract at Éowyn's wedding, either before or after the event. Perhaps even a betrothal can be announced! I almost feel half-crazed with excitement. I do try to appear calm, as a modest princess ought to be, but in truth I miss you terribly. I have tried to console myself with the making of my gown for Éowyn's wedding. You may inquire as to how that would be of help, and rightfully so. To explain: during the selection of the fabric and the fittings, I think to myself, "Will Éomer like this? Or that? Or will he even notice?" Then I have a laugh to myself and my heart does feel a little lighter. But with all these questions I have worried over, I feel I should oblige you to complimenting me effusively on my choice of frock. If you do happen to dislike it, I would advise you not to say so or my confidence will be dashed entirely._

Éomer laughed long over Lothíriel's words. But even with her light-hearted nonsense, he thought he sensed an underlying unhappiness. It was obvious she missed him more than she admitted, or that she was dealing with their separation with less grace than she pretended. With this thought concerning him, Éomer sought to console her with a final letter, just three days before their scheduled departure for Ithilien.

 _Do not dismay yourself over our present and future separation. I myself intend to make the most of our time together during the wedding. Éowyn informed me that their guests shall be uninvited the day after the wedding and that if I wish to say in Gondor longer, I will be compelled to seek lodging elsewhere. My own sister, can you believe it! I am prepared to linger in Minas Tirith, in any case, but only if you are to be there as well. That should take the sting off of however long a betrothal your father insists upon, or so I hope._

 _Please note that I have been practicing the art of compliments every day. I do believe I nearly gave my housekeeper a heart attack when I told her that her choice of pinafore was not so dull as to give an impression of unhappiness but not so bright as to convey garishness. It confused even me, if I am to be honest. Much more practice is needed; perhaps you can impart some wisdom._

* * *

Éomer was rightfully impressed by Ithilien. He had not seen it before Faramir's renovations, but his soon-to-be brother explained the changes and fixtures he had done with surprising humility. It was becoming all more clear, as he spent time with Faramir, why the man had won both the trust of his sovereign and the heart of Éowyn. But this realization was quickly dealt with, and even during their personal tour of the house and grounds, Éomer was distracted by thoughts of Lothíriel (supposed to arrive the following day), and Éowyn was clearly jumpy and a bit tense as she held onto Faramir's arm tightly. The new prince seemed to notice none of these underlying tensions, appearing cool and collected as ever.

It was a long evening, all in all.

The wedding would take place the day after next, and Éomer awoke that morning with great energy and little patience. He readied himself quickly, saw that Éowyn was taken properly in hand by a group of ladies helping her to prepare for the morrow, and was anxiously watching the road from Minas Tirith all before midmorning.

He was not rewarded for his enthusiasm, and was in fact forced away from his vigil soon afterwards by a trembling maid, who stammered out between several curtseys a plea for help to decorate the hall. Several minutes of trying to understand her meaning and Éomer was led to believe that even with the ladders available, none of the servants could reach the highest pillars, which they had been directed to adorn with garlands of white roses. Éomer agreed to help, which relieved the maid greatly, though his intentions were more selfish than anything. It would be a welcome distraction.

And so it was that when Imrahil's party arrived a few hours later, Éomer was standing on the tallest rung of the tallest ladder, only just able to wind the carefully woven roses around the pillars. It was a thankless task, but he kept his patience, and even took to whistling as he thought of Lothíriel. Perhaps it was that precise combination that caused her appearance to be announced by a giggle, and his heart leapt as he recognized the sound, and looked down to see the woman he loved standing at the bottom of his ladder.

"Dare I ask?" Lothíriel asked, her eyes twinkling familiarly. She was dressed in a dark riding costume, which fitted her form to perfection. Éomer swallowed several times before responding.

"'Tis no secret," he said, and began to descend the ladder. "A tall person was needed—and I have assisted. Most noble of me, I should think."

"How modest." Lothíriel's words were a murmur, and long lashes spread across flushed cheeks as her eyes lowered. Arriving at her side, Éomer made no hesitation to pull her roughly into an embrace as his lips sought hers with eagerness, which she responded to with equal ardor. The past weeks seemed to disappear in an instant, and all his withheld feelings flared to life in a heated way which he had not expected.

"Oi! I can see you, you know!"

An unfortunately familiar shout caused them to break apart, both breathing heavily and Lothíriel's wide, blue eyes looking to his with amazement. "Good heavens," she said faintly, ignoring her brother stalking towards them.

"I missed you," Éomer said, the phrase inadequate but truthful enough, and as Amrothos bore down upon them with a scowl he made do with clenching Lothíriel's hand tightly in his own.

"Despicable," the youngest son of Imrahil said to them, most severely. "In full view of—of everyone! When Father tasked me as your chaperone I did not expect that I would have to be in attendance with so many others about!"

Éomer's mouth fell open, but no sound came out as he formed the word _chaperone_. Lothíriel clearly caught the vein of his thoughts, for she grasped his arm in sympathy. "I know," she said. "Most unfair, I think. And cruel retaliation for my chaperoning Amrothos and his lady all summer!"

"A terrible duty, to be sure," Éomer said to her with a grin. "I would not have lasted through _that_!"

"Oi!" Amrothos objected again. "I am standing right here, you know!"

"Did you only just arrive?" Éomer asked Lothíriel, not taking his eyes from her face. Béma, how he had missed her!

"Yes," she said with a smile. "I did not linger in the stables with my father, I had to search you out at once."

Éomer was sorely tempted to kiss her again, but as Amrothos still stood before them with his arms crossed belligerently across his chest, he had to refrain. "Are you very tired?" he asked instead. "Faramir gave Éowyn and I an informative tour of the grounds yesterday; as he is quite busy today I can do a reasonable enough job of it, I think—but only if you are interested."

" _Most_ interested."

" _I_ am not interested!" Amrothos interrupted. "I want a rest; it has been a most trying journey! And you two cannot go off alone—Father will have my head!"

"I must change my clothing beforehand, however," Lothíriel said, and her adorable dimples surfaced, much to Éomer's delight. "Would you begrudge a short delay?"

"Not at all."

She stood on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, which Éomer found he enjoyed greatly, before taking her leave. He stared at her retreating form for some time before he was pulled back to the present by her brother, with whom he was already certain he was going to lose his temper afore the week was out.

"I realize you are pretending that I do not exist," Amrothos said with a great deal of self-importance. "But Lothíriel's honor is on my head, and I do not take that lightly."

Éomer regarded him, little impressed. "And what of my head?" he asked. "I should think that Lothíriel is mine to protect from myself, and her honor doubly so. Do you trust me so little?"

"I saw the way you kissed her! As did half the staff, I am sure."

"And you do not kiss your lady the same way? Come, Amrothos; do not hold us to any standards which you do not follow yourself."

This proved to be the chink in Amrothos's moral armor, and a moment of lip-biting consideration preceded his relenting. "Very well!" he said. "But do not prove me wrong to trust you, Éomer."

"I will not," Éomer promised, though it felt of ash in his mouth; from the way he had responded to simply kissing Lothíriel again, he began to doubt himself.

The princess did not look as though she had been travelling the past days, when she arrived at the back courtyard which led to Ithilien's formal gardens. Her hair was clean and smooth, her eyes bright and her expression beaming as she joined Éomer at a carved fountain. He could not help but admire the way her light blue frock clung to her shapely form, but the recent promise to Amrothos stopped his thoughts there.

"You are no longer needed in the hall, I presume," Lothíriel said, willingly entering his arms for another embrace, this one far more innocent than the last.

"I have not been told otherwise," Éomer grinned, brushing away her loose hair from her creamy neck. The scent of lavender wafted up to him, and he continued, rather hoarsely, "Anyway, Amrothos can assist if needed—he is tall enough."

"Is he not to accompany us?"

"No! I was able to dispense with our chaperone, providing we mind ourselves to his satisfaction."

Lothíriel's dimples surfaced. "You, sir, have the gift of gammon. I have been trying to convince Amrothos to do the same for _days_."

Éomer felt that this was the safest time to end their embrace, and he coughed slightly as he took her arm through his, and they began to wend down the marble steps and into the gardens. "Perhaps I simply create a more threatening image," he suggested helpfully.

"Do you?" Lothíriel's head tilted to the side as she considered him. "You do not seem very threatening at all, to me at least."

"I should hope not! I have no cause nor wish to do so; it would be a sign of poor control on my part if I had."

She laughed, and with the sound Éomer felt his steps lighten as again he thought of how terrible it had been to be apart from his alluring, laughing love. "Tell me," he said, as they wove around rose bushes which had been clipped clean of blooms for the hall. It reminded him of their first conversation in the gardens in Minas Tirith… He shook himself. "What are the betrothal traditions in Gondor?"

"Oh! Not at all anything terribly special," Lothíriel said. "An announcement, and usually a feast and dancing to go along with it. Generally the weddings are filled with more symbolic gestures, if that is what you are referring to."

"Hmm, indeed I am," Éomer mused. "I must warn you, my love. In Rohan the man declares his intentions by giving his bride a gift. She accepts his proposal by accepting the gift. That is what I am prepared for—we shall have to fit that in somehow."

"A gift?" she asked, clearly startled. "But—I haven't a gift for you! You should have warned me!" Her tone was a little cross, and Éomer hastened to explain further.

"It is only the man which presents a gift," he said. "Actually, Rohirric men give their wives many sorts of gifts; the troth-plighting is only the start. But the women are not required to give any in return."

"Truly? That hardly seems fair!"

"It is not fair, but not in the way you think," Éomer continued, feeling somewhat more serious. "You see, a woman gives the man far more than he can ever repay, with her love, a home, and children of their bodies."

She was quiet for a moment, looking about the tall hedges with contemplation. Birds were twittering all around, almost making a racket. Éomer wondered if they had caught on the excitement in the house and felt it necessary to join in. "An interesting tradition," Lothíriel said at last, and smiled up at him. There was warmth in her eyes, and love too. Éomer's chest tightened before he spoke again.

"But do not feel that you should not present me with gifts from time to time," he added. "I enjoy such things as much as anyone else."

Lothíriel giggled. "Éomer, you are positively shameless!"

"Indeed I am," he said gravely. "Which is why—" He did not finish the thought, tugging Lothíriel behind a decrepit stone wall and at once kissing her with fervor. He was perhaps more ruthless than he had intended (it had been a _long_ summer, after all), but she melted against him with a breathy moan.

"Do you know," Lothíriel was panting slightly when she pulled away. "When Faramir asks how well I like Ithilien I shan't have any idea what to say. Éomer, you are too distracting by half!"

"I shall take that as a compliment," he said, and then grinned. "Speaking of compliments, I have been remiss. Your gown is _most_ becoming, my love. It adorns you to perfection."

"Oh! You are a tease," Lothíriel said, though she was flushed a pretty pink. "I was not actually anticipating you complimenting me in such a way. _I_ am not shameless, even if you are."

Éomer did feel, though he did not say so, that it was prudent for them to continue their tour of the garden. He even dredged up a few half-remembered facts which Faramir had give him the day before, so that Lothíriel could have some knowledge with which to satisfy her cousin. He was still coursing with hot blood with intensity of emotion from their earlier kissing, which was affecting more than he thought it completely necessary considering how long they would likely have to wait before marrying.

Supper that night was in haste; the hall was decorated for the wedding on the morrow which was to take place in the evening, and for fear of disturbing the careful work of the servants most of the guests ate in their rooms. Most unfortunately, Éomer was forced to dine alone as Lothíriel was with her family and he would have felt uncomfortable joining without an invitation from Imrahil. He was not so shameless as his love believed! With the promise of meeting his hopeful bride and future father in the morning to hash out details of the wedding, Éomer tossed and turned with anxiety.

Perhaps he should have sought some detail from Lothíriel regarding the coming meeting with Imrahil—of course, they had been preoccupied with their usual banter and…other activities. Éomer would reap the consequences of that on the morrow.

* * *

 _This middle part is a bit slow, but it'll pick up soon enough. Let me know what you think - I hope you are all enjoying!_


	8. Chapter 8

The haste of the servants and various peoples preparing for the wedding just the day before had intensified to positive madness by the following morning. Éomer gave little thought to this, however; he had been privy to Éowyn's plans and trusted Faramir enough that it was a simple task to put it out of his mind, despite the loudness of it all. His focus was upon his love sitting beside him and her father across as they broke fast together in the suite of rooms which Faramir had granted his uncle.

"I beg your pardon regarding my reluctance," Imrahil began, as they served themselves to fresh bread, fruit and cut meats. Very good fare, considering the state the kitchens must be in, Éomer thought. "Knowing my daughter as I do, I find it difficult believe her of switching her affections so quickly, and so unexpectedly."

Éomer thought this unfair, and clearly Lothíriel did as well, for she interrupted. "Love changes many things, Father," she said, her voice bland. "Unexpected, to be sure—but not unwarranted."

Imrahil regarded them both with a suspicious expression that rivaled even that of Amrothos, who was thankfully absent. "I understand there is little to be done," he said at last. "If _I_ was ever so young and reckless in affairs of the heart, I remember it not. But I digress." There was a silent moment as they ate; Éomer felt that he was only tasting ash. Imrahil's mood was not forthcoming, and it did cause some nervousness.

"Father, I wish you would tell Éomer what you have decided," Lothíriel said with a smile. "He is likely perishing of worry."

Imrahil set down his fork and knife, a brow raised in their direction but a definite twinkle in his eyes. "Very well! Éomer, I would have you know that I considered the arguments of both you and my daughter and have determined you are both quite correct in all of your concerns regarding the timing of the wedding. Despite the potential of a scandal, I do believe that you two are determined enough that a delay shall only make a villain of me and do little to improve your relations."

Éomer's heart was swelling fit to burst at these hopeful words—would they truly marry soon? The tinge of red to Lothíriel's cheek as she cast a quick, private glance at him seemed to indicate so.

Imrahil sighed. "Winter is Dol Amroth is very pleasant," he said. "If you are confident the roads will be clear enough to travel, Éomer, we might set a date."

Winter! He was hard pressed to keep a calm expression as he solemnly agreed. "I have ridden in mountain snow before," Éomer said. "And it will only be a fraction of the trip, I believe."

Lothíriel's hand had found his under the table, and he squeezed it, trying to communicate the eagerness which was making his heart beat frantically.

"After the wedding, we may linger in Dol Amroth until we can be sure that the return journey will be safe," Éomer added. "Presuming we have your permission to do so, of course."

"There are many marvellous sights in Gondor, should you wish to see them," Imrahil said. "But of course you are welcome in my home as my son as long as you need."

"I thank you."

"For the time being," Imrahil continued, likely pretending not to notice the glance exchanged between the two, positively brimming with emotion. "Lothíriel will be wintering in Dol Amroth, to make her own preparations."

"Preparations?" Éomer said to Lothíriel before he could help himself. "I am not so terrifying, miss! I resent that you even think it necessary."

"Not to be your wife," she said, dimpling at him. "To live in Rohan, and—and for the wedding, and countless other things, really."

"Hmm. Éowyn did much the same. I know the process all too well."

Imrahil interrupted their discussion. "Then you will also understand the necessity of it. Lothíriel's mother is thrilled to take her in hand at last."

Éomer was surprised to hear this; Lothíriel had never mentioned her mother before, and Éomer had always been too distracted by the princess herself to consider her family. He would have to quiz her on it later.

"The details may be settled after the wedding," Imrahil said, clearly ready to conclude this 'meeting'. "I have permission from Faramir to announce the betrothal tomorrow night at supper, if you are in agreement."

"Yes!" Éomer said firmly. "And regarding whatever traditions there are to follow—I have a betrothal gift for Lothíriel that I wish to present to her. When that takes place does not matter, only that it occurs."

Imrahil gave a sigh, glancing out the window at the sun. It was still two hours until the wedding, which was undoubtedly why he waved them away at once. "Go now," he said. "There is time, and little to do until the ceremony, I expect."

Lothíriel was obviously about to have a start of laughter as they rushed from the chamber, her eyes bright and looking as giddy as Éomer felt. Despite the sound of bustling preparations nearby, he pulled her close only a little ways from Imrahil's chambers and began to kiss her ferociously, possessively.

"You seem rather relieved!" she half-gasped between kisses. "I say, Éomer! Oh! Oh, my!"

"I am relieved," he admitted. "I was afraid I would have to abduct you whilst everyone was distracted during the wedding. In fact, I wish I could anyway, would it bother you very much if we completely disregarded any contract and—"

A barrelling servant came down the corridor, snapping at them in no polite tone to move out of the way, and so they were willingly forced on, and Éomer led Lothíriel to the stables. A slight breeze was ruffling through the grounds, a little chill considering the autumn but warmer than Éomer was used to. The sight of Lothíriel's hair floating around her beaming face made him feel a little dizzy, but he pushed through as best he could.

"There!" Éomer said at last, having directed Lothíriel to where Rofsefa was quartered. "She is yours. You will get on well with her, I hope."

Still smiling, Lothíriel was already patting the mare's nose with interest, and the mare in turn was regarding her new mistress with large, dark eyes. "Really!" Lothíriel murmured at last. "She is a grand betrothal gift, I should think. How many children will I have to bear to repay such opulence?"

Éomer enjoyed her teasing more than he would admit, and briefly ran his fingers through his intended's thick black locks. "As many as you like," he said at last. "It is hardly grand, anyway. You are more precious than any horse, my love."

She was flushed red even as she gave him a most severe stare. "I forgot how ridiculously you speak oftimes," Lothíriel said. "Really, Éomer! I deserve no such praise."

"On the contrary. I wish we could ride now, but I suspect that we are required at the wedding. And I could not promise to return you, in any case."

"Is that so?" Lothíriel was scratching Rofsefa's chin now. "Then what would you do to me, exactly?"

"Now that is a question you should not dare to ask, otherwise I shall not be speaking until the sun goes down!"

She laughed then, but before she could respond a harried servant appeared in the stables and began to speak, rather panicky, that they were both required to ready themselves afore the ceremony was to start. Most disappointing, but Éomer escorted Lothíriel back to her chambers with a promise that they would see each other again soon.

It was a pretty enough wedding; Éomer being too distracted by his betrothed nearby to pay much attention past his initial assessment. Éowyn was splendid in her (rather expensive) pearly-lace frock, Faramir looked proud, and the ceremony took much too long.

Despite any of Lothíriel's worry of her appearance, Éomer was sure he had never seen such a magnificent creature in all his life. Excepting perhaps Queen Arwen, but as Lothíriel was to be his own, he could be excused thinking her more fair than any elf. Of course, the pink flush which spread upwards across her neck and bosom was part of that beauty, and Éomer suspected that he was the cause. Though she was determinedly focused upon the ceremony, she had to be aware of his staring. Had she not expected him to stare? Surely not—the gown which she had agonized over was all too alluring. Dark blue silk, cut simply but embroidered with silver thread and beaded with some bits and bobs that positively sparkled; a golden silk band across her waist decorated similarly brought attention to the slenderest part of her form. Éomer could admire her taste, and more so the woman who wore it so well. Though her hair was loose, it hung in beautifully shaped ringlets which seemed to be begging Éomer to touch.

Béma, the ceremony was going on far beyond necessary!

Though it felt a lifeage to Éomer, the wedding was at last concluded with much noise and applause and cheers. Then it was time for the banquet. Being the brother of the bride did have some advantages, and Éomer's ability to influence the seating arrangements was one of them. He was already standing near a high table when a servant directed Lothíriel towards the sat next to him, and he grinned lazily at her as he held out her chair for her.

"Kismet, I am sure," Lothíriel said, her eyes twinkling up at him. "Or you are the worst sort of manipulator."

Éomer pretended to look affronted as he scooted his chair nearer to hers, wishing that there were not two armrests between them. "Such accusations!" he said. "But why should not a couple which is to be married sit together? It is all very logical to _me_."

She was shaking her head in amusement, but protested no further. "Did you enjoy the ceremony?" Lothíriel asked, leaning on her armrest to study him intently.

"Oh—yes, yes, of course."

Her brows lifted in skepticism, and Éomer relented. Really, she was simply irresistible! How could one glance from her have him pouring out his heart so easily? "I did not give it my utmost attention," he conceded in a low voice. "You are utterly distracting, my love. Have I complimented your gown yet? I do like it, very much indeed. Too much, truth be told."

Lothíriel was turning pink once more, and to his minor surprise she lifted one slender hand to touch the front of his tunic. "You look very nice too, Éomer," she said, almost shyly. "Green is certainly your color." Then a hint of her mischievous smile surfaced, and she added, "If you are going to insist on overly exuberant compliments, then I must practice myself. You did say that you had done so; it is now my prerogative."

Éomer laughed, and the sound of the feast around them began to grow in volume as platters of food began to be served amongst the guests. The tables were arranged in concentric circles around the hall, each row on a single step. It was an odd shape that the hall had been built in; the main floor was the lowest point, and a half-dozen steps several feet wide led up to the main entrances and tall, pillared windows. Éomer and Lothíriel were at a table at the highest circle, and to his satisfaction he noticed that none of the other guests assigned to that table had yet appeared.

"You are smirking," Lothíriel said, cutting through his thoughts. "Whatever have you done?"

"Why must it always be my own doing?" Éomer teased, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb. It was very nice to be relatively alone. No one would notice them so removed from the main attractions; being the bride and her bridegroom, at the opposite end of the hall.

"It does always seem to be," she laughed. "Really—you will stop at nothing to have your way!"

"I shall tell you my secret," he said, lowering his tone. "On my right, there was assigned a family from Lossonarch. Éowyn did not expect them to travel such a distance but wished them to have a place anyway, as they are quite good friends of Faramir. As you can see, they have remained at home."

"How convenient!"

"And on your left—" Éomer continued. "The elderly matron of the healing houses from Minas Tirith; look down—you can see that she has scoffed off the idea of such a climb to the top all together and has been welcomed at your father's table."

"And how is it, exactly, that my father's table is below us and facing away? It is almost as though you did not wish him to be watching us!"

"I did not," Éomer admitted. "If we are only to have a few days together, I do want to make the best of them. Midwinter is not so terribly far, my head tells me, but I am sure it will feel an age."

"Oh, I do agree!"

They were the last to be served; an unforeseen disadvantage to their out-of-the-way table was that most of the food was quite cold by its presentation, but Éomer hardly noticed what he was eating, anyway. Their conversation turned to general terms; the decoration of the hall (thoroughly admired the day before), the slowness of the ceremony (nearly backwards), and the guests below (uninteresting). This brought them to the point where every guest stood and toasted the newly wedded couple with shouts and raised glasses. A short silence followed as all drank, and when they took their seats once more, Lothíriel spoke.

"Do you know, Éomer," she said with a hint of a smile, "I would have thought, that as the brother of the bride and her only relative, you would have taken more interest in her well-being on this day. Or at least—the good behavior of her new husband."

Éomer was hard-pressed not to laugh, thinking of what Éowyn's reaction would be to his meddling. She would skin him alive! "Think of it as an investment," he invented.

Lothíriel's brows rose. "An investment?"

"Indeed. If I react so calmly to my sister's marriage and harass not the bridegroom, I am asking fate to deal me the same hand. Do you think Amrothos is noticing my forbearance?"

A thrilling laugh burst from his beloved's lips. Thoroughly satisfied with her reaction to his teasing, Éomer could not help but chuckle along with her.

"You!" she wheezed at long last. "You are an utter degenerate!"

"But I am _your_ degenerate," Éomer said with a grin. "I trust you will take me well in hand to repair such—er—shortcomings of character."

Lothíriel smiled, her eyes warm. "I like you the way you are," she said. "I could not ask you to change."

"You say that now, my love, but I wonder if you will think similarly in a year's time! Now tell me," Éomer hastened the change the subject, not at all wishing to plant any seeds of doubt in her mind. "Is Dol Amroth pleasant in the winter? I confess myself surprised when your father said you would be residing there until the wedding."

If her smile tensed on her face, it was well-concealed. "The city is very pleasant in the autumn and winter," Lothíriel said, her words careful. "It is perfectly rational that I ready myself for marriage in my home, Éomer. There is no reason for surprise!"

His purpose in questioning was to divine more about her mother, and with her words which begat little questioning he had to try a different route. A more direct route would have to be taken, then. "Your father seemed to imply that your mother is enthusiastic about the wedding," Éomer said. "I look forward to meeting her."

Now her emotions were not so concealed, and Lothíriel gave him a sharp, inscrutable glance before lifting her shoulders in a casual shrug. "Mother is very excited, it is true. Little will rouse her from her bed nowadays, you see—" Then Lothíriel paused, looked at Éomer again, and finally gave a sigh. "I must tell you. Do you remember—I told you once that the reason I find such amusement from life is because I have always been surrounded by the ridiculous. You believed, I think, that I was referring to Amrothos, but in truth I was imagining my mother. When you do meet her—privilege or no—" a smile tugged at her lips once more, "You will certainly understand Amrothos's temperament better."

This speech was not what Éomer had expected. But he tried to take it in with both seriousness as to Lothíriel's feelings towards the matter, and humor as she clearly intended. He did not think it wise to labor under the assumption that his future mother was ridiculous. However it did not quite align itself in Éomer's thoughts that Imrahil—brave, courageous and wise hero—would marry a silly enough woman to affect his daughter in such a way. These assumptions would have to be tested much later (meaning at the wedding), so Éomer merely returned his betrothed's tentative smile with a broad one. But before he could speak and offer assurances, the clattering approach of a servant startled them both. Éomer had not noticed the lengthening of the shadows in the hall; even now the servants were lighting torches and candelabras to throw the chamber into relief once more. The meal was over—to his even greater surprise. Where had the afternoon gone?

But he would not complain; after a short interval it was time for dancing, and there was no question between himself and his love of whether they would dance with any others. As far as Éomer was concerned, they were alone in the great hall with even the strains of music far away, and Lothíriel's lovely blue eyes gazing up at him—rather adoringly, he liked to think. There was no pleasanter way to spend the evening, and it ended far too soon. The music ended at midnight precisely, and no matter Éomer's protests, Lothíriel laughed and insisted she had to seek her bed.

"It has been an exhausting day!" she said, gently tugging her hands from his. "Really, Éomer! We shall see each other tomorrow."

Despite the promise of the following day, Éomer could not help but think of the day after, on which he would be departing back to Rohan with the Rohirric guests, which made his stomach clench with dread. But there was nothing for it, and he parted from her unhappily.


	9. Chapter 9

The morning was clear and surprisingly pleasant, bearing the last scraps of summer's warmth with only an occasional chill breeze from the north. But Éomer and Lothíriel did not give the wind the regard it perhaps deserved, picnicking on the neatly trimmed east-lawn in full view of the hall (to reconcile any anxieties Éomer was sure Imrahil would be experiencing at their being without a chaperone).

Although they had danced all night, talking and laughing and likely fooling the other guests into thinking they had a long-standing acquaintance, words were not short between them as they enjoyed both the sun and their midday meal. To amuse his betrothed, Éomer recited a series of self-deprecating anecdotes which had Lothíriel giggling uncontrollably.

Eventually there was a lull, and Lothíriel said, while rubbing her cheeks which she claimed to be sore from laughing, "Do you know, Éomer, that Elessar told me some weeks back a most interesting story about you!"

He groaned, the thought of anyone else informing her of his character making him squirm; he preferred to do so himself, flaws and all.

Oblivious to his thoughts, she continued with twinkling eyes, "Did you really win a drinking competition among the soldiers after the war? Elessar was trying to hard to keep from smiling when we were speaking; I could not help but wonder if he was funning me!"

"If only he was," Éomer said with a rueful smile. "Not my finest moment, I will admit."

"Nor was your imagined insult by one of the statues in the king's gardens; I was also told that you tried to challenge it to a duel afterwards."

"I did not like the way he was looking at me," Éomer said, feeling indignant as she began to trill with laughter again. "And anyway, I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Or at all!" Lothíriel's hair whipped around in the wind, and he let himself grow distracted. Anything rather than this embarrassment! So he, already sitting close to her, wove his fingers through her dark locks and tried to smooth it, but the wind had other ideas. Once she was quite finished with her laughter, she gazed up at him, obviously still humored.

"You have brothers," Éomer pointed out, tracing his thumb along her ear. "It should to be _that_ amusing."

"Oh, but it is! Until that moment I had not thought you capable of losing yourself. But you are as weak a mortal as any, I have learned." Her guileless eyes betrayed her teasing, so Éomer knew not to take her words too seriously.

"One of us is like to be weak," he said. "And as you are practically perfect—I must take the fall."

Lothíriel rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation, and as she began to laugh once more Éomer grunted as one of her long fingers poked him in the ribs. "You are ridiculous," she said, which sounded like the beginning of an old argument. "Such a persistent belief that I might have any claim to perfection; complete drivel, really!"

"I disagree entirely."

She stared at him for a moment, her brows furrowing. "You are bound to be disappointed, then," Lothíriel said roundly. "Perhaps later than sooner, but disappointed all the same."

"I cannot fathom it being so," Éomer smiled. "Even if you do have flaws, I doubt I shall ever see them. I can be remarkably partial and blind to what I do not wish to see, when an occasion to do so arises."

"A foolish drinker, and biased to boot," Lothíriel tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Why, Éomer! It almost feels as though you are trying to talk me out of wedding you!"

Thinking the conversation too serious, Éomer clutched his chest in horror. "Nay! I would _never_ do such a thing! Why, our marriage would be the best thing that could happen to a soul as depraved as mine! As for your own soul—well, I cannot speak for, nor should I."

She was laughing, as he intended, and he continued, "As for the drinking—I can assure you I have had little time for revelry for quite some time. My recent, er, occupation fills all the hours in my days in more serious ways."

"Do I sense a hint of complaining? Must I add that to your growing list of faults?" Unconsciously, Lothíriel's hand had found his on the spread blanket on which they sat, and Éomer enjoyed the feeling of her warm skin on his before he answered.

"Only if you are keeping a tally of my advantages as well," he said, grinning.

Her dimples surfaced, and she leaned closer to him until nary a strand of hair could pass between them. Éomer hoped that her father and brother were not looking out of the house just then… "Of course," Lothíriel murmured. "Where to begin?"

"I do like the sound of that! Continue, please."

She bit back a giggle, and to Éomer's pleasure continued the teasing. "Well, you _are_ very kind," she said. "Considerate. Amusing. Generous." Lothíriel's voice was so quiet he had to lean closer to hear. And because he wanted to, of course. "You seem to be more than adept at kissing." A tinge of red spread across her cheeks.

"An admirable quality," Éomer said gravely. "If that is what turned your affections in my favor—"

"Such conceit!" Lothíriel burst into laughter. "That is one for your faults, but must be taken into consideration. Éomer, you are absurd!"

Ignoring the thought that they might be watched, Éomer stopped her laughter by kissing her without warning, and a pleasant silence followed, during which she somehow came to be snug in his arms and half-sprawled across his lap.

"Dear me!" she murmured into his ear, as he turned his attentions to her warm, creamy neck. "How on earth—"

"Best not question it," Éomer interrupted. "Thinking has little place, just now." He felt her throaty giggle, and without said thoughts to stop them, his hands crept upwards on her back, feeling too keenly the buttons of her dress.

As if knowing the surge of emotions he was experiencing, Lothíriel pulled away with a wry smile, settling herself back on the blanket. "Sometimes it does seem as though it was your kissing that convinced me to marry you," she teased. "You do take any chance to do so! Will you continue, once we are legally wedded and you have no more need to win me over?"

"No more need!" Éomer scoffed at the idea, and still wanting her near, motioned for her to lie down. Her sweet-smelling head took a place on his lap, and she gazed up at him as he began to thread his fingers through her hair. "I certainly will not stop kissing you after we are married," he told her. "It fact, I may do it more, as it will be less likely to create a scandal."

Her only response was a languid, unintelligible murmur; her eyes were closing against the brightness of the sun and, he suspected, the pleasantness of his touching her.

"No sleeping," Éomer said sternly, and she opened one eye to scowl half-heartedly at him. "You may do so after I leave. What were we speaking of earlier? Oh yes—flaws. You may as well tell me of yours, so that I am less surprised when I encounter them. If, indeed, you have any."

She bit her lip. "Very well," Lothíriel said. "It humbles me to speak of it, but I can deny you nothing. Not when you look at me so!"

Éomer pretended an innocent expression, and her dimples resurfaced before she spoke again.

"I am known to have a judgmental nature. I do dislike the company of those whom I consider shallow or tedious, and so I seek acquaintances rarely. I struggle to stay serious in situations where I ought to be; I do dislike the stifling emotions of anger or anxiety or sadness."

"Some may consider that a strength," Éomer said.

"Perhaps. But my mother certainly does not, and even my father—who does have a sense of humor—thinks me flighty. He may be correct, to some extent." Lothíriel gave a slight shrug. "But I prefer it. It keeps my soul well."

"I think your soul very well," he said. "And I find humor essential in all life, but perhaps more in a task as serious and taxing as the lot I was given. I would not be surprised if the same was true of yours."

A smile broadened on her face, which made his heart thump oddly but not uncomfortably. "We shall see," Lothíriel said. "And I look forward to discovering it, with you."

 _With you_. Éomer liked the sound of that very much, and he bent over to kiss the tip of her nose, which made her giggle. "Do you know," he added. "Some would consider my adoration of you a weakness."

"As the willing recipient of your adoration, I cannot agree!"

Éomer yawned, the lateness of the previous night exhausting him at last, and with astonishment he noticed the sun sinking to its western bed.

"It is nearly suppertime, I should think," he told his betrothed.

"Oh! Already?"

"Indeed!" Éomer laughed. "I was paying little attention to the passage of time, as I suspect you were. Shall we go in?"

Lothíriel's eyes were gleaming as he helped her to stand, and to his delight she tipped forward on her toes to kiss him quickly. "I do wish this afternoon never had to end," she said. "As our betrothal is to be announced tonight, everyone will wish to speak to us! And I have never wished for conversation less."

Éomer pushed her hair from her face with his fingers, liking the way she leaned towards him, in a perfect position for more kissing. "I hope you do not mean my conversation!" he teased. "That would not bode well for our future, my love."

"Oh, Éomer! You know that is not what I mean!"

In an instant he decided to add 'weak' to Lothíriel's apparent list of his faults, and he covered her laughing mouth with his own. It was several minutes before they were able to pack their picnic things and set out for the house at last, hand-in-hand and too comfortable to speak.

All the pleasures of Éowyn's feast were absent that evening. Éomer and Lothíriel were directed to sit at a table in full view of everyone, with many others to sit beside them. As the center of attention that evening, there would be no whispered conversations or stolen kisses, and Éomer took his seat with a significant amount of dread.

"Good evening!"

To his greater bad luck, Amrothos was beside him, and did not hesitate to try to engage a conversation. "Did you have an enjoyable day, Éomer?"

"Indeed, I did."

"Were you with Lothíriel?"

"Yes."

"What did you do?"

Éomer shrugged at his, trying to appear unbothered. "This and that. And how did you spend your day, Amrothos?"

At this the prince gave a lengthy sigh. "I have never been so lonely! My heart aches for my lady, and anyone whom I hoped might distract me was preoccupied elsewhere! You and Lothíriel; Faramir couldn't be found; my brothers in Dol Amroth. It was positively dull."

Éomer struggled not to laugh. "Was your father engaged as well?" he asked.

Amrothos paused, looking confused. "He is not the most desireable company. Too immersed in business and not like to indulge in a ride or a drink."

"Mmm." Most of the guests had arrived, but Éomer continued to glance about the hall for Lothíriel. The waiting was nigh unbearable, even though they had spent nearly the entire day together. He craved her presence the same way a thirsty man would want for water, though he suspected that no amount of her would satisfy him.

But despite that, his mouth went dry as soon as he saw her enter through the main doors. He nearly knocked over his chair, he stood so quickly, and swallowed several times so that he might have a voice when she arrived.

On the arm of her father, his betrothed was dressed in a shimmering pink silk frock, surprisingly low cut with sleeves that split at the elbows, allowing a view of her smooth arms. Her trim waist was accentuated by a belt of silver lilies, which matched the necklace at her creamy throat and the circlet which peeked out of her thick, dark curls. And perhaps best of all—her blue eyes, darkened in the dim light of the hall, were gazing into his own as if he were the only person she cared to see.

The opposite was certainly true, in his case.

Trying to appear less of a dolt (nothing more than a slack-jawed expression may not be appreciated by her father, after all), Éomer held out the high-backed chair for her to sit, and Imrahil surrendered her once she was in place, and took the seat on her opposite side. That was a significant disappointment, but Éomer hoped that Imrahil was sensible enough to allow them, newly-betrothed as they were, some of what he might consider silliness, and Éomer thought entirely necessary.

Lothíriel was smiling at him, and he did not hesitate to raise her hand to his lips. "Good evening, my princess," he murmured to her, enjoyed the flush across her face.

"And to you, lord," she said. "It has felt an age since we saw each other last!"

Éomer laughed quietly, not wanting to alert anyone as to how closely they were sitting to each other (he had moved his chair as near to her as he dared). Thankfully, the servants were just bringing in dishes laden with food, and the ensuing chatter and noise gave them some degree of privacy. Éomer was leaning, ready to whisper into her ear just how much he enjoyed her gown, when the first of the noblemen approached their table, bowing low.

"I wish to offer my congratulations to the King of Rohan and his bride," the older man said in a carrying voice. "We, of the court, will all regret the beauty of his summer rose to be taken from us."

Rather a bit much, Éomer thought with some jealousy, though he inclined his head graciously in return. Lothíriel, he saw, was fighting a smile as she thanked him profusely whilst also denying the truthfulness of such compliments. He was sure an excellent, private joke from her would follow, but on the heels of the nobleman came a flock of ladies, and to his horror, a queue began to form with them at the head.

Lothíriel had predicted correctly that everyone would desire to speak to them and offer well wishes on their impending marriage. Éomer's surprise deepened into disgust and at last into resentment; though he could appreciate the kindness and courtesy of these people (whom he did not know at all), he wanted to have his betrothed to himself. He would, after all, be returning to Rohan the following morning, something he had been ignoring, and he would not see Lothíriel until their wedding in the winter.

Amrothos's amusement at Éomer's clear annoyance certainly did not help.

It was undoubtedly the longest meal of his life, despite the very little food he was able to eat. It was long past midnight when Imrahil waved for the remaining nobles to retreat (Éomer thanked him fervently in his mind), and yawning, told Lothíriel it was of time to retire. Fearing he would not see her again before his dawn departure, Éomer jumped to his feet as Imrahil was about to steer her away.

"Will you see me off?" he asked, squeezing her hand desperately.

"Of course!" Lothíriel smiled broadly at him, the twinkle in her eyes a bit dim from the exhaustion of the evening. A perfect reflection of his own feelings.

"Good." Éomer wished to say more, much more, but Imrahil bade him goodnight firmly, and soon he was left staring wistfully at the swish of Lothíriel's skirt as they left the hall.

"Father does not trust you." Amrothos's singsong voice grated on Éomer's nerves something awful, but he did not rise to the bait.

"He takes his daughter's protection seriously," he admitted, and then took a final swig of the weak wine. "I cannot fault that. I am going to seek my bed as well."

But sleep did not come easily that night; disbelief that the past days had flown by so quickly and dread of living without Lothíriel for the next months did not allow Éomer's mind to relax. _It is only three months,_ he told himself sternly. _You can survive that long, at least…_

A irascible mood settled on him, so that by morning he only scowled at the man that came to wake him and had barely a greeting for his squire who brought Firefoot to him, fresh and saddled, in the courtyard just as the sun was breaking across the roof of Faramir's house. He wondered idly where his sister was and if she would waken to farewell him, and decided that he would not mind if she did not. They had said their parting words days ago; Éowyn had been all Faramir's the moment they had ridden into Gondor.

His guard and the various other Rohirric guests were ready before he, and with some embarrassment Éomer delayed as long as he might, hoping Lothíriel would be there. It was terribly early, and the feast had gone on so long...had Imrahil forbidden her to come?

But his fear was unfounded, and soon a dark-clad figure came hurtling down the steps from the entrance hall, hair streaming. Éomer caught her in his arms, ignoring the sniggering of the men around him, and breathing in deeply her scent, fresh from sleep. She still wore a creamy nightgown underneath her blue dressing robe, which he found vastly amusing and not a little arousing.

"My maid forgot to wake me," she murmured into his tunic. "I apologize."

"No need." Now that she was there, it would be all the harder to leave. And then, repeating his thoughts during the night, said, "It is a mere three months, my love. I am certain that neither of us will pine any so quickly."

Lothíriel laughed, pulling away to look up at him. "I live with Amrothos; you never know how his moods might affect me!"

Éomer kissed her forehead, then her nose and both her cheeks, until at last savoring the taste of her lips longer than might be appropriate. "Do not be discouraged," he said quietly, for the benefit of both of them. "Life will be sweet and whole soon enough…"

"Farewell!" She released him and stepped back, crossing her arms and seeming small and fragile despite the smile she forced. Éomer's heart wrenched, but knowing he could not delay any more, mounted Firefoot and turned towards the road.

She'd had a fair point, he thought idly as the forests of Ithilien disappeared behind the travelling party. Eloping _would_ have been easier…


	10. Chapter 10

The journey was finished in good time, and almost too soon Éomer was back in Meduseld, now deprived of the company of both his sister and his betrothed, and barraged daily with the normal problems of leading a nation which were neither small nor inconsequential. As he lay in bed each night, he began to count down the weeks until he was to leave for Dol Amroth. Twelve weeks seemed far too long, but soon slipped into eleven, and ten, and nine…

Herds of animals were butchered to be smoked, dried, and otherwise preserved for the winter. The last offerings of the mountain forests were gathered into cellars, and mead was set to brewing. Thick, grey clouds lay low over the bald fields for days before at last releasing the first snows of the season, and the excitement of dogsleds and horse-drawn sleighs filled Edoras with laughter and bells every day following.

Letters from Gondor were delayed, and Éomer waited impatiently for any correspondence from his soon-to-be-bride, who he knew had returned to Dol Amroth following the wedding. When it was eight weeks until he would depart, a thick bundle of parchment was delivered by an apple-cheeked messenger, whom he bade to stay in the hall until needed. Ignoring the need to assign a task of repairing leaky roofs in the stable to a carpenter, Éomer retreated to his private chambers at once, standing close to the window to eagerly read what Lothíriel had written.

After the ordinary concerns for his health and assurances of her own, it read thusly:

 _Though I am sure you have little interest in such matters, I do have a story to relay to you which I think you will find amusing. I certainly will, given time, but at the moment the angst is still too raw for me to laugh!_

 _Of utmost importance to my mother is the subject of my wedding gown. We spent three days alone (_ _three_ _!), viewing silks which were brought to the palace by various merchants. Somehow Mother revived herself enough to receive all the visitors and silks in a drawing room. She was enlivened by all the fawning attention, but I was sure to die. I was able to hide a book beneath a cushion on a settee and gave the fabric little heed. (I have learned the outermost limits of my patience, which seem very near when another person is choosing my wardrobe.) Unfortunately, I paid dearly for ignoring the enterprise: Mother chose a pattern of pale blue with pink paisleys, which was most hideous. I tried to intervene, but it was too late! (The book was very engaging, in my defense.) Learning from my mistake, I gave more regard to the choosing of the dress pattern, but there was little compromise there. Mother wanted me to wear something grandiose, in the style of her youth, and I could not gainsay her. I told her that if I did not topple over with the sheer volume of petticoats and silk and ribbons, it would be a miracle. But she would not hear of it. "A woman only wears one dress to her wedding!", she said. "It must be nothing short of spectacular!" I argued that it would too much expense and hassle for a frock which would only be worn once, but she told me to hold my tongue, which I took to understand that she had no response for me._

 _But my savior arrived the following day: Queen Arwen herself! She and Elessar were in Dol Amroth for a short holiday. Mother was still overcome by her joy of my gown and did not hesitate to give the queen a lengthy explanation of the process of its choosing and designing. I noticed (though Mother did not) that the queen was quite taken aback by the sketches of the dress, and I imagined some nausea. Queen Arwen is, of course, too diplomatic to grimace (which I was guilty of doing during the entire tirade)._

" _Why, such love has been put into this!" she told Mother, who beamed. "Are you sure this is for Lothíriel, and not you? It would set off your complexion perfectly."_

 _I had not realized the queen to be so honey-tongued!_

 _Mother blushed and said that she was too weak to attend the wedding, but the queen only shook her head. "Nonsense," she said. "Your eyes are as bright as the healthiest youth. You must attend!" Mother sat, wringing her hands together for quite some time before she agreed that it would not tire her too much to see her only daughter wed. After that decision was reached, she quickly agreed that the gown was more suited to herself than me, as long as some of the more ostentatious ruffles were removed. While Mother was talking animatedly about how she might arrange her hair, the queen winked at me! Can you believe it? I thought I might keel over from shock. Then she told me that she had just the fabric in Minas Tirith that would befit a princess. I hesitated to agree, but with the stress of choosing one gown still fresh and knowing that Queen Arwen does have impeccable taste, I agreed. And further than that, she said she would make a few sketches so that I might choose a design!_

 _What I did to deserve the queen's goodwill, I do not know. Nor dare I to question it._

 _I doubt I shall ever have the graciousness or patience of Queen Arwen. Consider yourself warned._

Éomer laughed long at this retelling, as Lothíriel had obviously intended, but sobered soon afterwards. There was an underlying unhappiness and perhaps resentment that he noticed, which only made him wish the days by faster. He wrote a response hastily, assuring her that he would be too pleased to be her husband to care what she wore on the day they wed, and that if she was at all generous she would care as little about his own costume. After all, he pointed out, Éowyn was not there to assist him in choosing something appropriate.

Seven weeks...six weeks…

The next letter he received was several days late and contained, according to Lothíriel, only a brief recount (though to Éomer it did not seem brief at all), of the social functions her mother had arranged to celebrate the upcoming wedding.

 _I have never before been so popular nor in demand in my life_ , she wrote. _Even when I was betrothed to Lord Silius, I was little noticed, even by Mother. I am beginning to believe that she sees my ascension to queenship as the jewel in her figurative crown (she is too frail to wear headgear daily). That I will be living in another nation escapes her, and I am lauded around court as her 'precious daughter'. Odd, considering that for many years she told me I was too plain-spoken, laughed too loudly, and carried myself as a clumsy kitchen maid._

 _I am quite finished with balls and dancing. There has been a celebration every night this week, and I fear the blisters from my dancing slippers will never fade. Will it bother you very much if I limp around the remainder of my life?_

This, of course, hardly mattered to Éomer, but his increasing concern for her health (as well as some of his own feelings) caused him to write a strong response:

 _I do not relish the thought of my intended dancing about with strange men night after night! If I hear so much as a whiff of rumor that even one stuffed shirts has the gall to get cheeky with you—I will be there, horsewhip in hand, in no more than four days._

Lothíriel's reply to this brought him much needed laughter, with only three weeks until he was to leave (his belongings were already packed and sitting by the door of his bedchamber).

 _Then—an excellent excuse not to dance! I hereby swear to stand with my back to the wall every evening until our wedding. If any man dares to ask for my hand, I will sniff disdainfully and tell him that if he so much as looks at me again, my husband-to-be will thrash him in view of the court._

 _I did suggest to Mother that the dancing be disposed of entirely at the wedding, but she would not hear of it. I will supplicate Father next; it would be a relief to have the assistance of even one sensible soul._

 _Amrothos argued long and hard with Mother to procure an invitation for his betrothed. Evidently Mother thinks little of the lady, but likely that is only because Amrothos is her favorite son and she would waste away if he left her. Father intervened, and since that_ _argument_ _discussion Mother has not had the energies to leave her chamber. A relief for me, to be sure._

When Éomer counted the half-dozen letters he had received in the last three months from Lothíriel, it seemed as though only a short time had passed. If he consulted his heart, however, the time could be measured as a veritable lifeage. All the same, when he and those accompanying him (guard and guests), departed on the first of December, a terrible burden was already lifting from his shoulders.

The journey was long but uneventful. Taking the safer roads which skirted the mountains into Gondor made for a longer mileage, but less risk of avalanche. The weather appeared to be adjusting itself to Éomer's impatience, and the sun lit the way into the southern lands, even if the thick snow and air remained bitterly cold, at least until they entered Imrahil's lands.

Indeed, the day they rode into Dor-en-Ernil, Éomer removed first his cloak, followed soon by his surcoat, fur cap and gloves. The unusual warmth was at once comforting and unnerving, especially when he considered what he had ahead of him in Dol Amroth.

Two and a half weeks since leaving Edoras, the party passed through the open gates of Dol Amroth. They were welcomed by a significant crowd; many scarves were waved in the air in greeting (and to attract the handsome northmen, Éomer suspected, noticing the numbers of young maidens). There was music, and shouting and laughing and instead of exciting him for the prospect of his own wedding, it began to wrack his nerves.

If the mere entering of the city was so heralded, how lavish would the wedding be?

Still, it was with enormous relief that Éomer finally saw Lothíriel as he entered the courtyard of the prince's palace, Firefoot's hooves clattering loudly on the stone. Two huge, marble swans flanked the steps to the oaken front doors, looking vicious and not at all as the swans he had seen in books as a child. But he ignored the interesting sight, and after dismounting and handing the reins to his squire, faced his betrothed's family, standing formally on the steps.

Lothíriel was biting her lip, suppressing what he suspected was a huge smile (he was feeling similarly himself); flanked by her brothers, who mostly appeared bored. Imrahil was looking proud and stern and dressed in rich furs, matching his children below him. After taking in the whole of the sight, Éomer nodded to everyone in turn and then headed straight for his bride.

She gasped as he swept her into a sudden embrace, and then giggled in his ear as he groaned, "Too long!"

Imrahil cleared his throat, interrupting what was promising to be a very warm welcome indeed, and when Éomer lifted his head he saw the prince gesture towards the courtyard.

"You are watched," he said. "The people of the city would appreciate some acknowledgement."

"As would I." Éomer heard Amrothos mutter beside his sister, but ignored him, and as duty demanded, faced the crowd with only one arm around Lothíriel's waist, lifted an arm into the air as a salute. The enormity of marrying the princess of Gondor's richest lands hit him just them; Dol Amroth had more citizens than the entirety of the Westemnet, and it seemed they had all flocked to catch sight of him and his people. The courtyard was filled to bursting point, and the noise of excitement made it hard for him to hear Lothíriel's next comment.

"Everyone is interested in you," she said towards his ear, with a knowing look. "The golden-haired King of Rohan, who, according to the gossips, has the handsomest guard ever assembled."

Éomer laughed loudly, and at Imrahil's signal they turned to enter the palace. Inside, it was almost eerily silent following the chaos outside, with huge, veined marble pillars holding the vaulted ceiling aloft. It was almost as interesting to look at as his bride. There was a distracting curl coming loose from Lothíriel's braids, and Éomer struggled to pay attention to aught else.

Imrahil was running his hand through his windswept hair. "You seem to have arrived in good health, my friend; did the journey pass smoothly?"

"Indeed, we were most fortunate."

"Good, good!" Imrahil said, waving his sons away, who departed without complaint. "Your things will be delivered your guest chambers likely before we will arrive there, and after you have washed, my wife wishes you to attend her. A simple, early supper will follow, as the real feast is being prepared for the wedding."

"I will show Éomer to his rooms," Lothíriel said.

Imrahil looked at his daughter, his eyes narrowing at her innocent expression. "No nonsense," he said firmly, and then nodded. "Go quickly. And do not step a single foot into his chamber, girl!" Imrahil called after them, for Lothíriel had seized Éomer's hand and already begun hauling him down towards the east wing.

Her giggles were echoing in corridors, and exhilaration made Éomer grin. In an empty alcove she pulled him to her, and in their excitement they bumped together awkwardly, laughing all the more, and at last Éomer seized the chance to kiss her. She was somewhat more of an armful than he was used to, with her sumptuous blue cloak trimmed with silver fur, but he did not mind one bit. Of course, the extra clothing was not at all enjoyable, but he had to pull himself back to the present sternly. Only two days until they were wed…

"I think this qualifies as 'nonsense,'" he said huskily, nipping at her earlobe. "I had not realized I was marrying such a disobedient woman!"

"Oh, posh! You _are_ an utter tease…if it bothers you so much, let us continue to your chambers!"

"No, no, that was not my intention; it was a mere observation, not a slur of your character. _I_ find no fault with disobedience, for if I did, I would be the worst hypocrite to live!"

Lothíriel was touching his face, which surprised him considered he had not bathed since the icy Ringló, and a smile played about her lips. His arms were wrapped tightly around her waist, and she showed no discomfort in their proximity. In fact, as he watched, she gave a contented sigh and then positively burrowed herself deeper into his embrace, resting her head on his grimy leather jerkin.

"I cannot express my relief that you have come at last," she murmured with another sigh. "I began to think that my unkindly letters would drive you away."

"Never!" Éomer declared, kissing the top of her sweet-smelling head. "Nothing short of a shift in your affections can do so. I am afraid you are, er—stuck with me."

She laughed, lifting her head to gaze at him. "I want nothing more to be stuck with you, and as soon as possible! We had better muddle through your meeting my mother as soon as possible, then at least I can stop dreading _that_."

So they continued down the corridor, Éomer not yielding his hold on her waist, and impressed that she kept step with him. "Yes, we do not want to dreading that any longer," he said thoughtfully. "What else have you to dread? We had best knock those out as soon as possible." Then a terrible thought occurred to him, and before Lothíriel could answer, he nearly shouted, "You—you are not dreading— _that_ —are you? My darling, please do not tell me you fear—" Her eyes had widened at his volume, and Éomer hastened lower his voice. "That is, if you truly are frightened, then I will not force you, but I thought—considering your enjoyment of kissing and your stout character, you would not—"

She began to positively howl with laughter, and rather than be offended Éomer was greatly pleased to know that she was not taking his concerns the least bit seriously. "Oh—oh dear!" Lothíriel said, wiping her eyes as she guided them down yet another corridor. "If you are truly worrying about that, I daresay you know nothing of me at all." She smiled upwards at him, and he noted a more feral tilt to her grin than normal. A sudden jolt of excitement cause him to squeeze her waist, and then she stopped walking. They had reached a dead end, with only a slit of a window allowing light.

"Here are your rooms," Lothíriel said, unlatching the single oaken door. "They are the furthest possible from my own. I had no say in the matter, if you can so believe!"

 _Only two more days, two days_ … Éomer reminded himself once more. The chamber was elegantly furnished, with rich wood tones and blue accents. Naturally. He would have appreciated exploring the room more, would Lothíriel enter, but she stayed stubbornly at the door.

"I will wait outside," she said, nodding towards his saddlebags, which were already placed on a trunk. Very efficient servants they had here. Or more time had been spent kissing than he realized.

After a quick wash and a swift change into clean, formal clothing, Éomer rejoined his bride and hand-in-hand, they retraced their steps to enter the east wing where the family apartments were located. Lothíriel's expression had hardened somewhat, and knowing how uncharacteristic it was for her to be serious about anything, Éomer felt unease blossom in his gut, and squeezed her hand all the tighter as they were admitted into her mother's rooms.

Stuffy heat! An overwhelming, perfumed and muggy air seemed to take extra effort to push through, and eyes watering from the sheer scent, Éomer coughed slightly, trying to see in the dim room. All the windows had been covered by dark, thick curtains, and only the roaring fire in the hearth gave off any light. Imrahil was there, standing stiffly behind a plush chair, positively laden with mauve silks and ribbons. Amrothos crouched beside the chair, holding a hand which seemed to protrude from the mass of fabrics.

"Daughter…" A frail voice spoke, and the trembling hand which Amrothos held was lifted slightly into the air. Lothíriel led Éomer forward, and he knew she could feel his sweaty palms, and he hoped she would realize it was from the heat and not from nervousness. To his surprise, as they drew near, he saw a woman's sunken face peeking out of the silks, which a lace cap atop her wispy, greying hair.

"Good afternoon, Mother," Lothíriel said tonelessly, and kissed her mother's hand. "Are you well?"

A pause, and then, "As well as can be expected, my darling jewel."

Éomer might have laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, now that the shock had worn off, were everyone else around him not so serious. Imrahil's brows were drawn together, and Amrothos's face was set with deep lines of concern. Lothíriel's usual smile was absent as she glanced back at him.

"Mother, this is Éomer."

The woman's black eyes turned to him, and Éomer did notice that despite her appearence of wasting away, her expression was nothing short of shrewd. He was presented with her hand next, and following his bride's example, Éomer bowed low and kissed the clammy, waxy skin.

"I apologize for not rising to greet you," she said, her tone wavering. "But I find strength for so little of late…"

"No matter, ma'am," Éomer told her, dropping her hand as soon as it would not be considered rude. "To be in your presence is honor enough, I assure you."

A silence followed this, and a benign smile grew on her face. "You must call me Mother, for my husband has informed me your own has passed."

"Indeed, ma'am—er...Mother. She died when I was but nine years of age."

'Mother' nodded knowingly, clasping her fragile hands together atop her lap of silk. She took a deep breath before speaking again. "The guidance of a motherly figure is essential when navigating life's cumberances. Although my health is not as it was, I would wish to provide you that guidance as I may."

"I—thank you, Mother."

The pealing ring of a bell sounded as if from far away. Éomer imagined that the room quite dampened it, though Lothíriel's mother still put a hand to her head and winced.

"We must away, my dear," Imrahil said, and stooped to place a kiss on her lace cap. His lips barely touched it.

"Do return tonight that we may finalize any issues regarding the wedding," Mother said, her tone now brisk. "Amrothos, be a darling and fetch me lavender water before you depart…there is my good boy."

Éomer was dragged (willingly) from the humid room by his bride, and when they were safe in the corridor, he breathed a huge breath of cool, fresh air.

"I am sorry," Lothíriel said. Her head was bowed, and though she held his hand as tightly as ever, her eyes did not lift to meet his.

"Do not be." Éomer drew her close, and she gave the barest of whimpers as she hid her face in his tunic.

"It is a terrible thing," she continued in a murmur. "I almost hate her, I surely do! Her mere proximity is poison to me. I cannot believe she spoke to you so impudently!"

Imrahil, who had departed just before them, turned a corner and they were left alone. Éomer stopped, and turned to hold Lothíriel at arm's length. To both his worry and his surprise, tears were glittering on her long lashes. "If you will not joke about the ridiculousness we have just experienced, then I will be forced to!" he said. "And I am not nearly as good at it as you are. Where is my minx? Lothíriel, my love…I promise we will not stay here longer than necessary, if it discourages you so."

At last a shadow of a smile appeared on her pink lips. "Thank you, Éomer. I…am ashamed of how I feel towards my mother, but…"

"It will be easier to think kindly of her from afar," he suggested, and she gave a hollow laugh.

"Too true! And besides, with the amount of guests she has invited, we will be too busy greeting courtiers to have time to spend with her." This idea emboldened Lothíriel, and with the atmosphere considerably lighter, they continued towards the dining hall.

A 'simple supper', as Imrahil had termed it, involved nearly one hundred guests sitting at wooden tables, and perhaps two dozen servants running up and down them, carrying dishes and pitchers of drink. Lothíriel explained to him, as they found places at the nearly-empty high table, that dinner normally involved four courses on an ordinary day, and up to twelve for special occasions.

"I suspect that it will be twelve for the wedding," Éomer said dully. "I wonder every day if we oughtn't've eloped months ago…"

"I did suggest just that," Lothíriel took a sip of wine, regarding him with smugness. He knew her well enough that she was teasing him, and so went along with it.

"Alas! I am laid low and humble by my woman." He groaned, shaking his head woefully. "I will rue the day I brought such a wise creature into my life, for I suspect my free will is gone forever…"

She scoffed, and the lively discussion that followed regarding whether he would likely ignore all of her counsel, for good or ill (Lothíriel's opinion), or that he was, ever and always, her most humble and obedient slave (which Éomer continued to claim), carried them through the entirety of the meal. This banter, ordinary for them and broken up with quite a bit of shared laughter, lightened Éomer's heart considerably as he forgot his new mother, the guests, and everything else dreadful they would have to face before they were wed.

It was fortunate that they had that evening to bolster their spirits, for to Éomer's great disappointment, the following day they did not see each other at all. He was with Imrahil, viewing troops of soldiers and touring various types of warships. Lothíriel, he learned, was in a reception room, receiving guests and their various offerings and gifts. Even with his newfound seasickness, Éomer knew that she had the worse task, and felt guilty about it all day.

The following afternoon would be the wedding, and as with Éowyn's celebrations, supper that night was served privately in the rooms of the guests as the hall was in the process of being decorated. So Éomer spent his evening in his rooms, joined by Erkenbrand, who had captained his guard for the journey. It was well-thought on his marshal's part, for after such an overwhelming experience in Dol Amroth, a friendly face and conversation was more than appreciated.

Somehow, through his overwhelming thoughts of his bride as he lay in bed that night, he remembered his sister. She ought to have arrived that evening, but he had yet to see her. He had other things to worry over, however…

* * *

 _First off, I know Mrs. Imrahil is ridiculous. She's meant to be a humorous component, which is probably unkind of me, and to explain Lothiriel's character a bit. I don't really think Wise Ol' Imrahil would marry anyone like that. She was based off of Mrs. Bennet, teehee._

 _Secondly, this is my plea for feedback. While I love and appreciate every one of my readers, lately I've been feeling like I'm sharing to the empty void of . I have so much more to share, but I want to know that that stories are wanted - **if** they're wanted. And I want ya'll to enjoy. I want you to leave feeling warm and cozy and happy! (maybe not every chapter as there are inevitable plot pitfalls, but every story, at least :P) Even bringing a smile to one person's face is worth the struggle of lonesome writing._


	11. Chapter 11

_Firstly, thank you to those of you who left such nice comments on the last chapter - they were and are much appreciated! Like I said, it's hard not to feel discouraged when there's only radio silence in return, so now I am feeling happier, more confident, and more like posting ;) I'll have a new story starting next week! There's only one chapter after this one for Fool for Love, for your FYI._

* * *

Éomer was sure he would not be able to sleep at all, and yet the sun was just breaking in through the eastern-facing windows in his chamber when he woke with a start. Despite the little rest he'd had, he felt a jolt as he remembered that he was to be wed that day, and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed while simultaneously feeling half of his limbs go numb. Nervousness he had not expected, and yet it had creeped upon him without warning. He sought his feelings quickly to determine the cause.

It was not marrying Lothíriel that was unsettling him; in fact, the surge of love and desire he had for her was, if possible, increasing towards a peak of intensity, now that their nuptials were so close at hand. No, he worried for the ordeal of the actual wedding, which would undoubtedly last the entire day. He had never cared for political or social functions, and the impression that his wedding would be both brought no pleasure at all. But it was only one day, and at the end of it, Lothíriel would be his forever.

This cheerful thought sustained Éomer through the arrival of a manservant, sent by Imrahil to assist Éomer in his preparations, and the subsequent scented bath. His formal clothing had been sent to the laundry and pressed to look its best, and the thick layers took some time to properly arrange, at least in the opinion of the manservant. Éomer was forced to draw the line when the man brandished a bottle of perfume in his direction, and elected to comb his hair himself.

A hastily devoured meal was all he was allowed; the wedding was to be at noon and despite his early start it was nearly time to put in his appearance at the great feasting hall. Feeling significantly harassed by this manservant, (were he Éomer's own hire, he would have been thrown out of the room hours earlier), Éomer at last was walking towards the hall.

His nerves were not feeling steady, and as he turned a corner, a sudden rush of green and white velvet hurtling towards him nearly made him shout. But it was only Éowyn, and she embraced him with the affection only a sister could have, talking over his attempted greeting.

"Éomer! At last! I wished to see you this morning but I was under direct orders that I could not go anywhere until I was properly outfitted. We only arrived after midnight last night; Faramir was kept in Ithilien on urgent business and our journey began late…I was just visiting Lothíriel; she looks a positive vision and I do not know _how_ you managed to win her heart. I wager there are dozens of young men attending today that might like to land you a black eye…"

"Enough!" Éomer gently removed her vice-like arms from him, struggling to breathe. She was smiling ear to ear, looking extraordinarily pretty in her frock and with her hair curled and hanging loosely down her back.

"She is waiting for you," Éowyn said. "Not very patiently, I must say. She sent me to drag you along by the ear, if I must."

"No need," he said hastily, and together they continued towards the hall. It may have been Éomer's imagination, but there seemed to be a buzz of excitement in the corridors, a low hum of anticipation.

In the antechamber leading into the great hall, there was a crush of bodies and several overlapping voices. This did not bother Éowyn in the least, as she shouldered through (Amrothos received a particularly sharp blow to to the ribs by Éowyn's elbow), and then an unseen voice cried, "All have arrived! Imrahil, you must lead the families!"

Éomer could only watch on in both confusion and bemusement as the bodies began to file out, indeed lead by Imrahil, resplendent in silver, and then the remaining of Lothíriel's relations. Éowyn had found Faramir, wearing a shade of green to match her own, and they tromped into the hall soon afterwards. By this time there were few enough people in the antechamber that Éomer caught sight, at the other end, of a golden-glad and harassed-looking figure, whom he made for at once.

"There is no tear in the train, Milde; I promise I have been walking so slowly and cautiously that I am surprised I have travelled further than my bedchamber. Really, I must insist, it is too late to fuss any longer—" Lothíriel, sounding far more agitated than usual, caught sight of Éomer, and her words ceased. A pained smile, a dropping of her shoulders, and his concern for her increased tenfold. The hovering maids had seen him as well, and with low bows they retreated.

"It is nearly time," she told him. "I—I am sorry—"

"For what?" Éomer asked, admittedly too distracted to understand her meaning. Her gown, shimmering gold silk overtop a white underdress, was cut and sewn to the curves of her body. A significant train trailed far behind her, and a sheer white headrail was hanging from the dark curls which cascaded down her back, and was nearly as long as the train. Expertly applied rouge tinted her cheeks, but to Éomer's trained eye, he saw that the powder did not disguise the dark circles around his bride's eyes.

"An hour, and it will be over," Éomer said gently, and he picked up her hands and squeezed them tightly. " _I_ am sorry, my love—"

"No," Lothíriel interrupted, and he was pleased to notice her tense expression relaxing into a more natural smile. "Do not be sorry. You had nothing to do with this—this utter _debacle_."

"Debacle? I think not! At least, I have seen very little yet, but whatever else may be falling down 'round our ears, do not forget that I have come here today to marry you, not to see the hall adorned with flowers nor to taste the every delicacy of the south."

Though there was a hiss from the general direction of the oaken doors, likely to encourage them to hurry on, Éomer drew Lothíriel into an embrace, and she sagged against him. The blasted headdress prevented him from kissing her head, and he resolved to rid her of it at the first opportunity. The weight of her costume surely was not helping matters.

"Let us leave tomorrow," she murmured into his tunic. "I do not care that I told Father we would stay for a fortnight; let us depart as soon as humanly possible."

"You will have no argument from me," Éomer said cheerfully. The hiss from the doors had escalated into a sharp, " _Move!",_ and so he helped Lothíriel to straighten, kissed her quickly for luck, and arm-in-arm they entered the the hall at last.

The walk seemed to take a lifeage; the overwhelming sight of bright flowers and banners, the warm and perfumed crowd and the face that everyone was watching them—made Éomer feel as though he were trodding through a marshy swamp. Every step took effort. He saw Lothíriel, out of the corner of his eye, looking ahead with a slight smile, and her chin was high. This strengthened him, and a moment later, they were standing in front of Imrahil.

The ceremony might have been five minutes or five hours; Éomer could not tell. His mind seemed to only be half-working, and though he was sure he had made his vows correctly (there had been no laughter), consciousness of what he was doing only returned when he was kissing Lothíriel.

The silence of the hall was broken, and layers of laughter, singing, cheering, and general talking brought Éomer to the present. Lothíriel had not moved from his embrace, though he noticed her shoulders were trembling somewhat. He grinned at her, and at last she smiled broadly.

"Let us leave Dol Amroth _now_ ," she suggested with an impish twinkle in her eyes, though the din nearly too loud for him to hear her words. "In a few hours' time all will be too intoxicated to appreciate our presence. Why suffer until then?"

Éomer laughed loudly. "I do agree, though it may be difficult to find an inn with any rooms for us—and I have no desire to sleep underneath a tree tonight!"

"You may adjust your thinking 'round about midnight or so," Lothíriel told him, and though she still beamed at him, there was warning in her voice. But before he could question it, they were surrounded and Éowyn was hugging him tightly, the tears on her face dampening his tunic.

"Oh, many felicitations! I am pleased to see you as happy as I!"

Éomer patted her back awkwardly, but before he could respond Éowyn moved on to Lothíriel. It was a bemused Faramir that wrung his hand, and Éomer smiled deprecatingly.

"She has been extraordinarily energetic of late," Faramir explained with a grin. "Congratulations, my brother. You could not have found a better wife and queen in a thousand years of searching."

Éomer agreed fervently to this, and Faramir was nudged out of the way by Amrothos, whose hair was slightly scruffy and his eyes crazed. "Come see Mother," he demanded. "Bring Lothíriel, at once please. She will not let me rest until she had spoken to you!"

It was fortunate that Faramir and Éowyn were both polite and aware of the quirks of Lothíriel's mother, and Éomer took his bride's hand to help her alight the dias, and they walked through the crowd to the best of their ability (many people paused their progress to wish them well), until they came to an alcove between the western windows.

Mother, as Éomer was forced to think of her, was holding court from a plush settee. Again, she was draped in blue and mauve silks, and a towering headdress adorned her wispy hair. Several maids were scuttling around with water, towels, and smelling salts. Éomer bent over her proffered hand, and Lothíriel curtsied formally.

"I offer my best wishes of happiness," Mother said, her thin voice carrying surprisingly well. "I do hate to take you away from the guests, but I am feeling poorly and must retire. I did want to give my blessing before I departed."

"Thank you, Mother," Lothíriel said. "We are honored that you attended the wedding."

"Hmm. Yes. You must tell me everything tomorrow. Amrothos will be escorting me back to my chambers; I am too exhausted to stand alone...where is that boy?"

Fortunately, her youngest son was lurking nearby, and with great patience he assisted his mother to leave through a side door. Lothíriel let out a drawn-out sigh of relief as the last of the following maids disappeared as well, and they were left alone in the alcove.

"Did you notice the dress?" she asked, taking Éomer's arm and gazing up at him.

"It was rather...voluptuous."

"I would have fallen over from the weight, had I been forced to wear it," she said. A dimple surfaced in her cheek, and Éomer bent down to kiss it quickly.

"I prefer the frock you are wearing," he said, his eyes flitting over it again, admiring. The cleft between her breasts was particularly visible from his height, which was an unexpected benefit. "It befits you very well. _Very_ well indeed."

A real blush, not at all artificial powder, was lighting her cheeks. "You should write to the queen as soon as you might, and thank her most profusely," Lothíriel said. "I have already done so."

"Speaking of—where is Aragorn? I thought he was to attend."

Her smile dimmed somewhat, though her grip on his arm tightened. "He sent his regards several days ago," she explained. "The queen is in confinement and cannot travel; he did not wish to leave her. Though I wonder...Éowyn has attended, and does not appear any worse for it."

"Well, it is an acceptable reason, I admit, but—" Éomer scratched his beard, feeling itchy from the heat in the hall. Lothíriel's smile was growing mischievous, and he paused. "Hold—are you to say—Éowyn—?"

"They have not announced anything," Lothíriel said, and her eyes began to sparkle. "But it is obvious; to other women, at least. Did you not see her tears today? If I remember correctly, (which I am sure I do), she did not even weep at her own wedding! Is that not most strange?"

"Indeed," he muttered in agreement.

She continued, "Though when Amrothos has convinced Father to allow him to marry his lady, I am more likely to emulate the queen's actions. I would rather not journey to that event under any circumstances."

Éomer was feeling as though he was losing the conversation, and he hurried to clarify. "You hope to be with child when Amrothos is wed? That is rather optimistic, as I understand that babes do not come according to any schedule!"

"You are not wrong," Lothíriel said, smiling, and unless he was imagining it, there was a steely hunger in her eyes. "But certainly _our_ actions will have some effect on the matter."

He was prepared with several responses to this saucy comment, but to great misfortunate a servant interrupted them. Imrahil, as it conspired, required them at the high table that the feast may begin. Never before had Éomer wanted for food so little, but the remaining dregs of his sense of duty called out to attend the feast. And anyway, absconding from the hall with his bride so soon was unlikely to endear him to the stoic prince.

His expectations for the feast, which had been very low, proved to be accurate. Lothíriel's attention was claimed on her opposite side by Éowyn, and Éomer was engaged in conversation with Imrahil on his right for the entirety of the meal. The only chance he had to speak to Lothíriel occurred near the beginning.

"I have been in correspondence with Éowyn and Elessar," she whispered to him, as platters of food and pitchers of drink were placed before them. "It was meant to be a surprise for you; I do hope the cooks have done everything justice!"

Éomer was surprised to see many foods he recognized—not the spiney fish he expected from the coastal city, but roast pork with apples and onion, sweet molasses bread, barley and vegetable stew, sugar cream pies and frothy honey mead.

"I was able to taste the dishes for the kitchen staff," Lothíriel continued with an impish smile. "As it so happens—I enjoy Rohirric food very much."

Before he could tell her just how pleased he was by this, Imrahil interrupted gravely, asking Éomer's opinion on the treatment of war prisoners. This became a long, tedious and somewhat unhappy conversation, though the sound of Lothíriel and Éowyn's giggles next to him kept Éomer's heart light. He appreciated the Rohirric food immensely, and also partook of several exotic dishes which he did not recognize, most involving mussels in some form.

Eventually the long meal came to an end, as the servants began to light torches and candles to light the hall. The sun had passed beyond the horizon, and the streaky purple sky was visible outside the columned windows. The noise of the feast was dimming as people stretched and yawned, full of both food and conversation. Éomer stared out at the crowd, feeling rather tired himself; it felt a very long day had passed, though it could not have been more than a few hours since the ceremony.

Suddenly he felt Lothíriel's hand on his arm, and he turned.

"I am sorry," she said, the barest frown marring her face. "I feel as though I have neglected you and also that I could not help it one bit!"

"I know," Éomer grinned, patting her hand. "Béma, I know!"

"There is to be dancing next," Lothíriel sounded nigh on miserable. "I could not convince Father otherwise. 'Tis tradition…"

"I enjoy dancing with you," he assured her.

"But you cannot!" she sighed, and at the rise of his brows, continued in a monotone voice, as if learned by heart, "The traditional wedding celebrations of Dol Amroth involve the guests trying to steal the bride away from the bridegroom and vice versa. For that reason, the bridal couple almost never dances together, and they are taken away from the hall for the consummation separately."

"That is not so different than in Rohan," Éomer said. "There the couple is undressed by family members and put to bed."

Lothíriel was grimacing. "That is not _too_ different, though everyone will still be trying to keep us apart, instead."

"I make no objection to landing anyone a good wallop, if I must."

As he hoped, a slight smile tilted her lips. "Nor would I," she said. "But that would be rather rude. Did you know, long ago—the bride would be undressed by the men and the bridegroom by women?"

Éomer felt a measure of alarm at this; the thought of a group of drunken men undressing his wife did not sit at all well with him! He would really prefer to do that himself, alone. "Long ago," he said, stroking his beard. "Am I to assume that tradition has ceased?"

"Yes—thank the Valar! But…" she hesitated, and he held her hand more tightly, encouraging her to continue. She bit her lip, and then said, "I shall explain the rest later. When we are alone; I do not think I can speak of such things surrounded by others!"

"Very well." He raised her hand to his lips, pleased to see that she was flushed again. "But give me one consolation: that we will not be kept apart the entire night!"

Lothíriel laughed softly. "That much I can assure you. Dear Éomer, I—"

What, exactly, she was going to say was lost in a loud shriek of excitement, and suddenly they were crowded by several people. His bride was hauled to her feet by her brothers, and with only a regretful glance from her, Éomer was almost immediately seized by Éowyn.

"I have the first dance!" she told him, steering him through the thick crowd. "I cannot speak for the rest, but at least you may begin your evening well."

As it so happened, Éowyn was quite the seer, for Éomer did not glean half the pleasure from dancing with anyone else the remainder of the night. The noblewomen that bustled around him, greedy and searching, may have been tolerant at any other time, but on his wedding day, with the sight of his pretty bride dancing with unknown men nearby—it was all repulsive. Why this had come to be the tradition escaped him: was the concept that a bride and bridegroom might wish to be together so foreign?

Buffeted by powdered bosoms, thick skirts and the combined stenches of heavy perfume and too much wine, Éomer began to feel unwell in the hot hall. Was this truly Midwinter in the south? He could only hope Lothíriel would adjust to the snow in Rohan…

He glanced over the head of his current partner, his eyes smarting from the violent shade of pink she wore, and saw Lothíriel dancing with Lord Silius. The man had not crossed Éomer's mind for several months, and though he did not doubt his bride's affections in the least, the sight remained repugnant.

He began to be certain that it had not been a single day and evening; but long years in passing since he had kissed his bride in the antechamber. _Why_ must the celebrations be drawn-out so unnecessarily? And why, why had he not agreed to an elopement? They might have married by any lord in Rohan, with no arduous feast nor tedious dancing, nor crush of guests whose names he would never remember…

"Éomer."

He was standing by a refreshment table, thirsty from dancing and heat and drinking a very nice pear cordial. Elphir, his arms crossed and his eyes hooded, nodded towards the door. Éomer stared back, unsure what to think.

"I am not going to assassinate you," Elphir said, and his face relaxed into a smile. "It is time."

That was enough explanation for Éomer. He threw back the rest of the cordial and did not even look back at the festivities before following Elphir out of a side door. Blessed chill met them in the corridor: the hall had been hotter than he had realized. It was a relief, once he was drawn into chamber in the south of the palace, to at last rid himself of his fur-lined cape.

"You seem eager," Elphir commented. He was pouring wine into several glasses from a sideboard.

"I am infernally warm," Éomer said, sinking into a settee and leaning his head back. "If this was not my wedding, I would have scampered off hours ago."

The other man chuckled. "Lothíriel said about the same to me not a half-hour ago."

Éomer heard the sound of others approaching, heavy-footed and laughing loudly. He swallowed a sigh, and then turned to Elphir, pleading, "I am exhausted. Can this part not be passed over?"

The prince's expression softened, glancing at the door. "I would help you," he said. "But Lothíriel is being kept by the womenfolk…I cannot remove them from her side."

"But how—how do the separate parties know when to—er—"

"They will send a woman to fetch you," Elphir explained.

"Can you not—" Éomer was unused to begging, but never before did he feel so desperate to be away from the drinking and the dancing and the teasing and the company… "Send someone instead?" he suggested without hope.

Elphir eyed him, took a sip of wine, and then sighed. "Very well! Give us five minutes—I will tell Amrothos he may give you all the grief he needs to, but quickly. I will search out Éowyn; she will assist, I think."

Éomer closed his eyes. Five minutes, then he might no longer be forced to pretend he was enjoying this debacle. Lothíriel had been too right when she described it as such. The sound of the door banging open was not pleasant, and Elphir's voice as he instructed Amrothos before departing the chamber was the only thing that gave Éomer hope.

Amrothos was taking his duty of goading his new brother very seriously; more seriously than Éomer had ever seen him before. He smiled politely at the traditional but not very kind jokes about his manhood, whether he would be able to please his bride, etc., but his thoughts were far away. He refused any wine, though Amrothos swore that if Éomer and Lothíriel were drunk they would, thankfully, forget the awkward experience of consummation altogether.

The desire to ask Amrothos if that was how he would treat his own lady was almost— _almost_ —irrepressible.

A cough from the door, and Elphir's voice said, "Éomer. You can come now."

Thanking all the Valar he could think of in that moment, Éomer hastened to join Elphir for another trek through the winding corridors. A brief fear that Amrothos would follow was unfounded, and Éomer thanked all the Valar once more.

An echoing sound of giggling preceded their arrival. There was a dozen or so women standing outside an ornate oaken door at the southeast end of a palace wing, but Éomer ignored them. Elphir began to usher them away, and without waiting for further instruction or permission, Éomer knocked on the door. Lothíriel's voice bade him enter, and so he did.


	12. Chapter 12

_Warning: This chapter gets a little mature. Not explicit, but mature._

* * *

None of the chambers he had seen yet in the palace were quite like this one. It was enormous, for one thing, and a chill breeze entered the room from gauzy curtains that hung from marble pillars. He assumed it led to a balcony, which would undoubtedly be pleasant in the daytime. A fire crackled in a great stone hearth on the western wall, and the various furniture items were tasteful and clean. Then the pungent, heady smell smell hit him—he saw a surprisingly small bed, adorned with a canopy of flowers. It was not what he expected, and he stared in near horror at the opulence.

"Oh, I am sorry!" A gulping cry met his ears, and he saw, to his horror, his bride—his beautiful, laughing Lothíriel—bury her face in her hands and collapse, sitting on the top of a trunk. Éomer hastened to her, kneeling by her side and embracing her as best he could despite the awkward position. That she was wearing no more than a silken shift did not escape his attention.

"I am sorry!" she continued to sob, turning her face away from him, "Oh, this has been positively wretched! It is too much! It is all t—too much!"

He might have tried to say something then, but now that she had started, Lothíriel showed no inclination of stopping.

"Oh, that stupid dress Mother wore, the obscene dancing and the terrible, practically-public dressing down—I have never felt such humiliation in my life! This is all _too much_!"

Éomer took to stroking her soft hair, though the smell of the flowers nearby were making him feeling dizzy. Truthfully he did not know what to say, and his heart ached at his wife's unhappiness.

"And—and now, I am making things a thousand times worse by—by crying on my wedding night! You must th—think me the worst sort of f—fool…"

"You are not a fool," Éomer said gently. "Do know that I blame none of this fiasco on you! I feel as though this was not really our wedding at all, but the wedding of pomp and nobility and really, an excuse to dress ridiculously and act worse."

"Oh—I know!" Lothíriel sniffed, her weeping abating. "I cannot—I can hardly believe you are still with me. If the man I was to wed came with this—this _disaster_ I would have cut my losses and run!"

"I love you," he murmured. She whimpered, and he continued, insisting. "No, really! 'Tis true! I loved you the moment I saw you, Lothíriel. I waited months for a betrothal, and months again for a wedding, and now I have waited hours even to speak to you, to hold you! And I would do it again ten times over if I must—I would suffer this and more for even a single moment with you."

"Oh, Éomer!" She lifted her face, and with another sob she threw her arms 'round his neck.

"Of course," Éomer continued, half-strangled. "You may change your mind about _me_ once you see the coronation my council has planned for you. I have always thought that kissing every babe in Edoras was excessive, but now I have attended a Dol Amrothian wedding…"

Lothíriel peered into his face, biting her lip. Even with tears staining her cheeks and her eyes red and puffy, Éomer's heart thudded uncomfortably at a surge of desire. "You are teasing," she decided, and smiled. "Thank you."

"For…?"

"Teasing me out of my megrims. I am embarrassed."

"Do not be," Éomer said, and fished a handkerchief out of his vest, which she accepted gratefully. "As long as I am not the cause of your tears…"

She smiled again, drying her eyes. "Never!"

"Good! Now, will you object if I remove these infernal flowers? They are giving me quite the headache!"

"Oh, please do! I _did_ specifically tell the servants not to bother…"

Éomer stood and approached the bed. With a firm yank, the first strand flitted to the floor. "If I may guess," he said, pulling down several more at once. "Your mother?" He glanced at his bride, pleased by the formation of her dimples in her red cheeks.

"She adores traditions," Lothíriel said. "Though I am sure you have noticed."

"Indeed, I have."

There was a repast laid out on a small table, and she poured herself a drink while Éomer dragged the flowers onto the balcony. He hesitated for a moment, and then tossed the lot over the edge. His head felt clearer immediately.

"Water?" Lothíriel offered him her cup as he reentered. The cool water cleared the scratchiness in his throat from the flowers, the mead, the dancing, the crowds… When he finished, he noticed a shift in the atmosphere of the room, and not simply due to the absence of the flowers…

"There is one more obstacle of which I must inform you," she said, her smile fading slightly. "You remember—the guests wish to keep us apart?"

"Too well," Éomer muttered.

"Well, about a half-hour or so after the bridal couple is left alone, they begin a parade with instruments and singing and marching, and—well, they take a tour of the gardens. The gardens which this, the bridal chamber, looks over."

It took him a moment to understand this. "A half-hour," he said. "Very well-timed, I should think."

"Indeed," Lothíriel sighed and took the empty cup, setting it back on the table. The glint of the fire nearby was casting golden light across the bare skin of her arms, and Éomer swallowed several times.

"Well—we must think of a solution," he said, his voice hoarse.

"My maid made a suggestion, though it is not my preference," she said, her lips pulling downwards into a frown. "She said that any couple that does not wish to be disturbed ought to wait until the parade is over before consummating their marriage."

The words were delivered so blandly that Éomer again found his mind working slowly. " _Wait_?" he asked. "What a terrible idea."

"I do agree, but is it worse than the interruption? I cannot say." She smiled again.

"A half-hour," Éomer mused, and strode away to sit down in the furthest chair from his bride that he could find, lacing his fingers behind his head. A knot of disappointment was forming in his belly, but he managed a smile anyway. "A _half-hour_! Is not the whole day long enough?"

"Evidently not!" Lothíriel laughed, the sound bringing him more happiness than nearly anything else could. Her features were not as discernible as he sat so far from the fire. "But if you do not mind interruption…"

"I would rather not," he said firmly. "We may wait."

She was wringing her hands, though a sad sort of smile remained on her face as she sunk onto an upholstered stool, which sat in front of a mirrored vanity. "I am sorry," she repeated, for perhaps the tenth time that evening. "This really is all a muddle…"

"If I had known of this parade when I first arrived," Éomer said, thinking wistfully. "I would have searched out all the instruments I could find to snap the strings or tear the bellows."

Lothíriel laughed and picked up a comb, beginning to smooth out the tangles in her hair. It seemed that her headdress had not been removed well at all, and she winced slightly as she said, "I ought to have thought of it earlier; I could have done so weeks ago."

"But then they might have made repairs!"

"Oh, too true! Well, I might have hidden the instruments then…or tossed them into the sea."

Éomer watched her dark waves of hair shine in the firelight. A lump had risen in his throat, and he forced himself to say, "Is it too late for a reconnaissance mission, then?"

"As you can see, I have no appropriate clothing for such a mission," she said cheerily. "I will not be brought anything else to wear until the morning. 'Tis another—"

"Tradition," he supplied. "I understand."

She glanced into the mirror at him, and he smiled back broadly.

"And in any case," Éomer added. "I am finding myself perfectly content to watch my wife, for the time being."

"Nonsensical man," Lothíriel said, but her tone was affectionate.

"I always have been."

The bridal chamber must be far from the hall, Éomer decided lazily. There was nothing but silence when he took a moment to listen; no indication that dozens of drunken guests would be shouting and singing at any moment. Lothíriel began to hum to herself, and a surge of affection made him glance at her again.

Now with his attention just so, he saw that the firelight was glowing through the sheer of her nightgown, and he could see the dark outline of her bare curves.

The weight of their long separation, made worse by their forced segregation during their own wedding, pushed heavily on Éomer's shoulders once more, and then lifted in a glorious haze. She was his wife! And they need not be apart again, perhaps for a very long time. And blast any drunken guests; he would not be beleaguered by those whom he held in considerably low esteem.

The sound of his boots echoed loudly on the marble floor as he made hastily for his wife, and she had only the time to emit a small, "Oh!" of surprise before he wrapped his arms 'round her waist from behind and nuzzled his face into her soft neck.

"This really is ridiculous," he murmured into her ear, watching the smile spread across her face in the silver mirror. "But I have changed my mind about waiting; we have endured the day enough."

"I am easily convinced." Lothíriel wriggled in his embrace until she faced him, and he hauled her to her feet at once. The kiss that followed made Éomer both dizzy and unnaturally aware of everything about him. The creamy, supple skin of her skin where his hands roved on her arms, neck and shoulders; the faint taste of pear cordial on her breath and the feel of her tongue against his own. Her breasts were pressed so tightly to his own chest he imagined he could feel her heart beating as frantically as his own.

"Éomer…" Her voice was husky as she wound her fingers in his hair. "Take me to bed."

It was some time later, perhaps fifteen minutes or so, when the distant sound of a _thump-thump-thump_ of drums caused them to break apart in slight panic.

"Has it been so long?" Lothíriel, her lips pink and swollen from kissing, glanced beyond his shoulder to the curtained balcony.

"So _long_?" Éomer questioned in a growl, nipping at her neck.

"Oh—I did not mean—!"

He silenced her with his mouth on hers, slow and languid and drawing another moan from his bride. "I know," he murmured. The parade was growing louder, and the unmistakeable sound of lutes and fiddles made Éomer groan in frustration.

"I did warn you," Lothíriel dimpled, her fingers roaming across his shoulders. "You may as well go see the sight; the music really is nothing short of a potent killer of passion."

"You speak for yourself." He pulled the neckline of her shift lower, kissing the cleft between her breasts. She began to laugh, and he was inconveniently disturbed from his ministrations, and he lifted his head to glower. "I am busy," Éomer snapped.

"Oh, I know very well—but it is only going to become louder—" As if on cue, several voices broke out into song. Éomer thought he head Amrothos's dulcet tones especially. Lothíriel was smiling benignly, and said in a gentle tone, "I would care for refreshment; I am sure that when my thirst is quenched they will have departed."

"Do I have your word?"

"You have more than that, you tease!"

Éomer rolled to his side, and with a sniff Lothíriel straightened her shift before bounding from the bed. He was feeling terribly hot, (in a different way than in the feasting hall), and while his bride fetched a pair of goblets he divested himself of his undershirt and added it to the growing pile of discarded clothing by the bed. He did not hear Lothíriel approach, with the noise outside, and only looked up when he saw her holding a cup towards him. She sat beside him on the bed, appearing far too casual, all things considered, and sipped from her goblet.

"You are quiet," he said, taking a drink of his own. If Dol Amroth had to be praised on one thing alone, Éomer decided it must be the pear cordial.

"I cannot think of a single joke," Lothíriel confessed, almost inaudible over the din of the parade, and smiled up at him. "I am feeling…too raw. Too warm. Too…too amazed. Does that make any sense at all? I suppose not."

"It makes perfect sense," Éomer said, and drew her close to kiss the top of her head. "And I am glad you are amazed; it bodes well for the remainder of our evening."

Her eyes, normally a bright and cheery blue, were looking dark in the firelight. The hunger he had seen at the feast had returned, and he traced her sulked bottom lip with his thumb. Outside, more shouting and even louder drumbeats sounded, but Éomer ignored it. Her silky shift, slightly damp now, was hanging off of one of her shoulders, exposing the pale skin and drawing him towards her. Lothíriel's hand lifted to his face, and his gaze was drawn upwards once more.

"When you look at me so, I begin to consider upending the chamber pot on my brothers outside, so that they will shut up and go away," she whispered.

His beautiful bride, matching his own desire! Éomer was beginning to recognize the fire in her soul, and not a trace of fear had exposed itself. His admiration of his wife increased all the more, and his arousal peaked.

Silver goblets clattered to the floor, spilling cordial over his discarded clothing. But Éomer did not see; Lothíriel had nearly thrown herself at him, and straddling his hips she began to kiss him fiercely. It was done very well from her height. He tugged at the neckline of her shift, drawing it downwards, and with a breathy moan she broke away. Éomer wasted no time to taste the sweet skin of her breasts…the shift sunk lower, and as they collapsed on the bed together, he lowered his head further and kissed the soft skin of her belly, her hips…

The feeling of her hands on his own skin was enough to make him wild. There was no hesitation in her actions, and she seemed as intent on feeling every bit of him as he was of her. His bride… _his…_

The only time when the spell between them was broken was the rather difficult moment when Éomer tried to remove his trousers without pausing in their kissing. Lothíriel began to laugh at his struggle, and though he scowled slightly he knew the ridiculous sight he must be. At last, the trousers joined her shift on the ground, and her laugh was swallowed in his mouth.

The sensation of his beautiful Lothíriel with him was not exactly as his imagination had supplied, during those long months: Éomer was only too happy to admit it was better. She was soft, she was warm, she was eager and easily pleasured. They moved together, they breathed together, they even laughed together, and at last…at last…

The parade must have finished. No sound, apart from the fire, broke the heady silence of the chamber. Éomer lifted his head, kissing his wife's damp forehead. Her eyes were closed, and dark lashes spread across flushed, pink cheeks. There had never been, nor could ever be, a sight better than this one—he was absolutely certain. He kissed her lips tenderly, and her hands rose to touch the ends of his beard.

"Dear Éomer," Lothíriel murmured, her voice slightly hoarse. "If you can still love me now, I suppose…"

"I love you all the more," he told her firmly. "How can a man possibly love his wife less after such wonderful lovemaking?"

She smiled, and he kissed the dimples that formed. "I expect I am a rather sore sight at this point. And—ow! I am a bit sore myself, truth be told."

At once Éomer removed himself, though he continued to watch his wife with interest as she stretched and sat forward, shaking out her mussed hair. "Where are you hurting?" he asked.

"My hips," she said ruefully. "You are—er—rather broad, I must say."

"Say what you must. Lie down!"

Lothíriel obeyed, only glancing at him with a measure of worry, and positioning himself next to her, Éomer began to knead her sore muscles with his hands. The breeze entering through the curtains was cooling the sweat on his skin, and he imagined that they would sleep very well under the covers. It really was a comfortable chamber, after the noise and music was forgotten…

"You are too kind," she murmured after a moment. Her eyes had closed again, and he wondered briefly what hour it was. Was it past midnight already?

"Do you still wish to leave in the morning?" Éomer asked softly.

Her brows creased, and her eyes fluttered open to gaze up at him. "What is your opinion?" she countered.

"Well—in an ideal situation, we would be allowed to stay in this chamber without any more social appearances for a week or so, then we would steal away at night without having to attend a farewell feast."

Lothíriel laughed. "I do agree, but it is an unlikely ideal. Though if we insist on leaving tomorrow, I think most people would still be too drunk to insist on any special sort of farewell."

"There may not be any inns available for some time. What with how many guests I have seen these last days!"

"They will be departing soon enough," she said. "I think that in two days' time, the inns around the city will be emptied."

"Hmm. And now I must ask—where are we to go next? Minas Tirith?"

She rested her chin on his chest, and with her honest gaze that had drawn her to him at the beginning, Éomer could not help a lazy grin from forming. "Wherever you wish," Lothíriel said simply.

"I only wish to be with you. And I must be in Rohan by the waning of February, at the latest."

An impish smile made her face positively brim with excitement. "Let us go to Rohan now," she said. "I have no desire to travel the length and width of Gondor! I want to see your home; I want to know where you came from. And I would rather enjoy practicing my new Rohirric phrases in the near future."

"You may practice on me," Éomer said, and his grin broadened. "Do you truly wish to go to Rohan so soon? I—I am honored, really."

"Of course!"

"Then we shall do as my bride wishes." He drew her closer for a kiss—a long one—before she nestled deeper into his arms and closed her eyes once more.

"We ought to rest, then," Lothíriel's voice was muffled. "Especially as I somehow have the impression that packing our things may be a distracted ordeal…"

He did agree with that; already he was anticipating the morning…with pleasure and fervor and a great deal of delight…

Éomer was just drifting to sleep when his wife removed herself from his embrace with a groan of exasperation. He peeked open one eye to see her sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking out her loose hair. "What is it?" he asked.

"My hair!" she said, sounding close to a snap. "I had forgotten; every time we are together my hair is a veritable rat's nest afterwards. I do not know _why_ , but you do seem to enjoy messing it terribly!" With those strong words, she stood to fetch her comb, and Éomer continued to watch her through half-closed eyes with great interest. She began to roughly comb out her tousled curls by the fire, apparently completely oblivious to her own nudity and the affect it had on her husband.

"Sorry," Éomer mumbled hoarsely after a moment. "I did not know it bothered you so."

Lothíriel turned to cast him a laughing glance. "Of course you did not," she said. "But I shall forgive you, all the same. I suspect I need the practice." Several moments passed before she was able to expertly braid her hair back, and with a shiver she bounded back to the bed, where Éomer lifted the counterpane for her to curl up close to him.

"Better?" he asked.

"Better." She nestled close to him with a yawn, and then asked, "Would you mind very much if I cut my hair? It may be more efficient, now that you and your inconsiderate, mischievous fingers are going to be about my person permanently."

"I do like your hair," Éomer admitted. "Which am I sure you have guessed."

Lothíriel gave a snort of laughter, and he ran his hands along her chilled, bare arms. "Well," she said. "I can cut it, or you can stop tangling it. I will leave the decision to you."

He lifted the end of her braid to tickle her nose, which she wrinkled at him. "You are not helping your case," Lothíriel added.

"I suppose it depends," he said, stroking his beard in thought. She looked skeptical at this, and Éomer continued, "If you intend to wear those lace caps of your mother, well—"

Lothíriel gasped in outrage, squirming away from him, though it morphed into a laugh as he tugged her back. "We really have to speak about your outrageous teasing!" she wheezed. "Completely uncalled for in all respects!"

"Then consider me a fool," he told her with a grin. "Most do already."

She glanced at him, askance. "Then what do they call the woman whom the fool marries? Nothing flattering, I should think."

"Why, they will call you queen!"

"Oh, dear," Lothíriel bit her lip, her ever-present smile fading somewhat. "I—with all of the wedding nonsense, I had forgotten that bit."

"I did not forget," Éomer said cheerily. "But you have worried enough; really, if you are wanting to leave at dawn, I think we will be lucky to have even a few hours' sleep."

"I hardly feel like sleeping now," she said with a smile. "You are too distracting."

"I thank you for the compliment, my love. Must I retire to the dressing room, then?"

"Oh, no! You mustn't! Oh—you are funning again. Éomer, you utter—"

"Fool," Éomer supplied, tweaking her nose. "Go on, say it! I will not be offended."

Lothíriel sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. "I was going to say 'tease', as it does seem more flattering."

"I do appreciate my wife's flattery, even if it is untrue."

She laughed, tugging the covers to her chin. "Go to sleep, Éomer. I have no wish to banter until dawn."

"That is what I have been trying to say," Éomer told her, scowling in a jesting manner, and she giggled once more.

"Good night then," Lothíriel said, and closed her eyes.

It must have been far past midnight, but sleep escaped Éomer almost as much as it had the night previous. He remained in the throes of excitement to be married to the woman he loved and to have her so near. Even the sound of her soft breathing as she was fortunate enough to slip into slumber tugged at his heart in a most intriguing way: a mixture of love and desire, sentimentality and, strangely, a dull ache.

This pain was completely unfamiliar to him, and for some time he lay awake, staring at the vaulted marble ceiling and wondering why loving Lothíriel would be tinged with that heartache. It must have started, he thought, when he saw the full measure of her misery over their grandiose wedding. To see her unhappy made _him_ unhappy. A wry smile crossed his face at the next thought: Éowyn would likely say he was experiencing an unselfish love. He cared for Lothíriel's well being as much as (if not more than) his own, and that vulnerability was that wistful ache.

Dawn broke through the curtains some time later. Éomer blinked awake; he had dozed. But instead of exhausted, he felt wide-awake and quite ready to begin the preparations to extract his bride from her childhood home as soon as possible. Careful not to disturb Lothíriel, he left the bed and threw trousers and an undershirt before fetching a glass of pear cordial. It was still cool, and refreshed him greatly for his next task.

There was a fully-supplied writing desk on the far side of the hearth. He sat down, thinking of how to word such a letter without offending Imrahil or lying about why they would be departing so soon. At last he wrote,

 _Imrahil,_

 _We thank you for the wedding you have provided us; it was nothing short of magnificent, due to your generosity and the hard work of many. It was certainly a day we will never forget._

 _However, Lothíriel has been quite exhausted by the ordeal, and has asked that we depart on our honeymoon at once. I cannot refuse my bride, nor do I wish to keep her, in her fragile state, in such a continually overwhelming atmosphere._

 _We will be leaving for Rohan at noon today. We both understand that the preparations for the transportation of Lothíriel's belongings is incomplete, but it is no matter. Send it along later, and I will compensate you the cost. For now, we will take only what we need._

 _Please make our regards for us—and we hope that without our presence, your home will soon return to its normal state._

 _Yours sincerely, etc._

Perhaps he should have allowed for a real farewell between Imrahil and his daughter—and perhaps it might still happen. Éomer sealed the letter with satisfaction.

There was a bell-pull for servants, and when a maid appeared not a minute later, Éomer was rightly impressed. He addressed her through the half-opened door, and hoped with all his energy he had thought of everything. Deliver the letter to Imrahil…inform Erkenbrand to have the king's guard ready to leave at noon…have a bath and meal delivered to their chamber at midmorning…see that the princess's belongings were packed for departure.

"Begging your pardon, sire," the maid said with a toothy grin. "Word is, the princess has had her bags packed for weeks. Some said that she would run for an elopement…or to avoid wedding at all."

Éomer stifled a laugh and dismissed the maid, who curtseyed before hurrying away with the letter in her apron pocket. He latched the door again, and decided that since it was now well-past dawn, it might be sensible for Lothíriel to wake…

To his surprise, she still slept on, despite the noise of his conversation with the maid. He stretched out behind her, lifting her braid and gently undoing the knot that was tied at the end of it. Because of her complaints the night before, Éomer was careful to keep her hair smooth, running his fingers through it as he undid the plait, making sure it had no tangles.

Lothíriel had not moved nor made a sound. With her back towards him, it was tricky to tell if she was awake or not—but Éomer guessed not. So he moved closer, pulling her by the waist until their bodies fit together rather snugly, and he moved her hair to kiss her ear softly.

No response. He might have laughed, but that surely would have jolted her, and so he began to brush his lips against her smooth, sweet-smelling neck. It was positively glorious; he had already forgotten her taste…

At last she made a noise: a mumbling groan that, if containing words, made no sense at all. Éomer did chuckle then, and snaked his hands under the covers to perhaps wake her a bit better.

"Whaturyoudoing?" she mumbled, still unmoving.

"Why, I am waking my wife, of course," Éomer said, and returned to kissing her neck. "Well—mostly. I am doing a bit of worshipping as well." He was feeling vastly amused to learn this new side of Lothíriel: she did not seem to be an early riser at all. "It is an important day today," he whispered huskily into her ear. "We are leaving at noon, you know. There is much to do, and very little time…"

She muttered something else, but again he did not understand.

"I have heard the most interesting gossip," he continued, burying his nose into her hair and breathing deeply. "Is it true you packed your belongings weeks ago? Intending to run _to_ me, or _from_ me?"

" _Éomer_!" Lothíriel said, at last sounding awake as she turned on her side to face him. Her eyes were groggy but sharp, and she drew a hand from underneath the covers to point in his face. "Listening to gossip? I thought better of you!"

He grinned, and kissed her nose. "Well, which is it?"

She was flushing pink. "I considered—only once or twice, mind you—taking Rofsefa and absconding for Rohan by myself. I thought that you would bully me less than my mother about our wedding. If, indeed, you had insisted on one at all."

"Perhaps," Éomer said. "But I am bullying you now. The bath will be arriving in an hour or so."

"Then why must I wake? My sleep was very pleasant; I did not like being dragged from it!" Lothíriel was smiling, so he knew she was not _too_ upset. But she certainly deserved to be teased for it.

"I have been awake for hours," he declared. "I have been terribly lonely."

" _Lonely_!"

"Indeed."

She burst into laughter then. "Éomer, Éomer! You _are_ ridiculous. Go on then; I will keep your company until the bath arrives. What do you wish to talk about?

"Well . . . it is not really _talking_ that I had in mind . . ."

To demonstrate, he removed the covers in a flash, causing his bride to gasp with the sudden, cool air. Then he drew himself up and began to kiss those lovely areas where his hands had been roving.

That hour passed by rather quickly, and to the immense satisfaction of them both. The arrival of breakfast and the bath did put a bit of a damper on their fun, but even then: any time spent together involved a great deal of playfulness and laughter.

Very little of the palace was awake when they at last left the chamber, just before noon, and taking less-travelled routes to the stables. Éomer had been very impressed when Lothíriel dressed in a travelling outfit of trousers and riding boots, with a fur vest for the winter. She looked very fetching in it, too, and he nearly bumped into a wall or two, turning his head to admire his bride multiple times on their trek.

The stables, at least, were a flurry of activity, and Éomer was pleased to see his guard tacked and ready in the courtyard just beyond. His squire had saddled Firefoot, and bowed low when they approached.

"My lord, er—my lady," he said in Rohirric, flushing red. "I did not know which horse to prepare for my lady…"

"That is quite alright," Lothíriel responded with a cheery smiley at the boy, who began to look ill. Evidently he was nonplussed that his new queen spoke his native tongue. She continued, "Rofsefa prefers to be saddled by me. You've probably saved your own fingers!"

The noon sun was warm on their backs as they rode together for the gate out of the palace courtyard, even though the midwinter air was sharp and chill. Éomer glanced at his bride once more, and saw her face tilted upwards, eyes closed, and looking far more relaxed and at peace than he had seen her for the last days.

"Thank you, Éomer," she said without opening her eyes. "I feel better already."

" _Oi!"_

The sudden shout nearly made them draw rein, but Éomer recognized the voice and said to Lothíriel with a grin, "Let us continue on, no?"

"Oh, yes!"

" _OI_!" Out of the corner of his eye, Éomer saw, not only Amrothos, but Erchirion as well, hurtling down the bailey wall towards them, both half-dressed and looking both a combination of ill and panicked. "Where do you think you're going?" Amrothos bellowed.

"I am leaving, of course," Lothíriel called. "Goodbye, Amrothos."

"Mother is going to have your heads!"

But Erchirion was howling with laughter, gripping the paraphet before him as he tried to stay upright. "Serves the old bat right!" he wheezed, loud enough for them to hear. "I won't marry until she's dead and gone, so help me." Lothíriel had clamped her hand to her mouth, though Éomer could see the smile underneath it.

"You are a fool, Éomer!" Amrothos bellowed after them, as they emerged on the far side of the gate. "Travelling back through the mountains in winter? You'll be lucky to live, between that and Mother's wrath!"

Most of Éomer's guards were laughing to themselves now, to his amusement, and at last Lothíriel began to giggle. "You do not regret leaving so soon?" he asked her quietly.

Her eyes were sparkling. "Not at all."

"Good."

Amrothos's huff of indignation, as he realized they were not stopping, was clearly audible.

"Goodbye, Lothíriel! Good luck!" Erchirion, bless him, was making up for his brother's lack of graciousness. Lothíriel turned in her saddle, and gave a parting wave. There was too much distance now to exchange words, and the palace began to disappear behind the roofs of city houses as they wound through the stone streets.

There were many people out and about on their business at noon in Dol Amroth. Many waved or called greetings, recognizing either their princess or perhaps Éomer from his entrance earlier in the week. Lothíriel was a picture of graciousness, responding with ease to those that hallooed in greeting, as though she had done such things for many years. Which, he reminded himself, was likely true.

"Will you miss your home?" Éomer asked some time later, when they had left the main bustle of the city and were well on their way to the city gates, which loomed ahead of them in white marble sparkling in the sun.

Lothíriel glanced at him, a beaming smile breaking out across her face. "Home, Éomer? But that is where I am going."

"But—"

"I understood your meaning perfectly!" she said, laughing. "But now _you_ must understand that my home is with you, and in Rohan. I am departing the city of my childhood, and that is all."

Éomer enjoyed the sight of her dimples too much to argue. With a great amount of hope and love and not a little foolishness in the strength of those, he grinned back at Lothíriel and once released of the gates, turned Firefoot to the north with his wife beside him.

 _END_

* * *

 _Thank you, friends and readers, for sticking through :* I hope it was satisfying and that if you liked it, you will drop a note and let me know ;)_


End file.
